Stars Come Falling Down From The Sky
by theredwagon
Summary: Four months have passed since the events that took place in the story 'In Restless Dreams I Walked Alone' and our Musketeers are once again in peril as it's revealed that there is a spy in their midst. Aramis and d'Artagnan have been betrayed and captured by the Spanish while Athos and Porthos are unaware of the danger from within as they search for their missing brothers
1. Chapter 1

Stars Come Falling Down From The Sky by theredwagon

Summary; Four months have passed since the events that took place in the story "In Restless Dreams I Walked Alone' and our Musketeers are once again in peril as it's revealed that there is a spy in their midst. Aramis and d'Artagnan have been betrayed and captured by the Spanish while Athos and Porthos are unaware of the danger from within as they search for their missing brothers

Disclaimer; No money be made, no harm intended.

Title; Lovingly borrowed from the song 'Still I'm Sad' by the amazing Yardbirds

* * *

Chapter 1

Henri Pierre Bernard does not consider himself a man who is easily frightened.

When he was a boy of just six he'd fearlessly killed the fox that had been terrorising their hen-house with only his wits and a slingshot. By ten, he was taking on the older boys in the village who'd taunted his cousin for being a bit on the chunky side due to his fondness for pastries, and at fifteen he'd used his father's ancient pistol and a broken broadsword to scare off a pair of intrepid thieves from his family's farm. He'd been chosen as a Musketeer cadet at twenty two and a full-fledged member of the regiment at twenty four and has seen many skirmishes and faced countless enemies in his service to the Crown. Now, at twenty seven, he's survived eight months of combat on the bloodiest battlefields this war had spawned, men against cannons, infantry facing cavalry, but he's never shirked his duty, never run away from the fight or turned his back on his brothers.

Today, however, Henri is not feeling particularly confident or brave. Just the opposite, today, he's properly terrified.

He's lost many comrades since they'd left Paris the previous spring, including one who he'd considered a brother from the day they'd met at the garrison as cadets and he'd almost lost another that he'd come to love just as dearly. He and Laurent and Marcel had been friends since their training days and they'd added d'Artagnan to their group when the younger man had received his pauldron and moved to the garrison and into their barracks. The three friends had known that d'Artagnan had a special place beside the so-called Inseparables - their current Captain and his trusted Lieutenants - but they were also aware of the fact that he was a great deal younger than his older comrades and the youthful friendship that Henri and the others had extended to the newly commissioned Musketeer had been appreciated and reciprocated.

A few months earlier, their small group of friends suffered their first misfortune; d'Artagnan had been badly wounded and had teetered on the edge between life and death for days, the entire regiment fearing for his survival, since his wounds had been sustained saving his comrades from a battle they could not have won. Just as d'Artagnan had begun to slowly recover, they were struck by another tragedy, the loss of Marcel, who'd been cut down in a surprise attack on their camp that had also left their Captain seriously injured. Thankfully, for the sake of the regiment and for the men who cared deeply for their Captain, Athos had made a full recovery, as had d'Artagnan after a long and arduous struggle to regain his health. But the loss of Marcel, Henri's very first friend in Paris, weighed heavily on the young man as well as upon Laurent, who'd become sullen and withdrawn for weeks after, and d'Artagnan, whose struggle with poor health had been further burdened by their shared grief.

As for Henri's current predicament, and the reason for his distress, well, the truth is that he's faced down the Spanish with less trepidation and fear. Inside the flimsy canvas walls of the Captain's tent, two of the most intimidating men in the entire French army are waiting for him to share the report he's received from the afternoon patrol. He hesitates just a few moments longer, trying to regain his composure since the news he has to impart has also affected Henri in a deeply personal way. It's freezing, the ground blanketed in a few centimetres of fresh snow, and the low temperatures in northern France are not what most of the regiment is accustomed to, but that's not why he's trembling, nor is it from fear; it's the thought of enduring more loss that makes his body shake like an autumn leaf dangling on the edge of an empty branch, just moments from falling from its perch to wither away and die.

The tent flap opens abruptly and Henri, startled, comes face to face with the intimidating figure of Porthos du Vallon.

"Are you waiting for an engraved invitation, boy?" he asks sharply and Henri doesn't reply, he just ducks into the Captain's tent, his face set in a grim expression.

He salutes Athos stiffly and his Captain, seated at the desk that d'Artagnan had somehow managed to have sent from Paris for his mentor, nods and indicates that he should be seated, and Henri gratefully complies.

"Out with it lad, I know you've been standing outside for near quarter of an hour, care to explain why?" Athos queries, one brow raised.

Henri swallows. "My apologies, sir," he says contritely. "It's just that the news I have to impart is not what you…or I…had hoped for," he adds quietly.

Porthos practically growls in reply and Henri physically flinches.

"Spit it out, boy, or I'll have you digging latrines for the rest of the war!" the big man says angrily.

"Sorry sir," he replies at once, thoroughly chastised, and clears his throat. "The afternoon patrol has returned from their search for our missing Musketeers. They found two horses, a pile of weapons and a…a substantial amount of blood in the snow," he says so softly he barely hears himself speak. He can't help it, the words are broken glass in his throat.

"Where?" Porthos asks abruptly.

"Three leagues northeast of here, just within our borders."

Athos' expression doesn't change, he's deceptively calm and it's very unnerving. "And were you able to confirm who the horses and the weapons belonged to?"

Henri nods slowly. "Yes sir, the horses are unfamiliar, probably changed at our outpost, but they carried regimental saddle bags with identifying marks and they contained items that were easily identified. The weapons, sir, they're personalised and distinctive to two particular soldiers of our regiment," he explains with dread and he clears his throat again before he continues. "As a result of the search and subsequent investigation, it's my duty to inform you that he horses, personal belongings and weapons belong to, without a doubt, Aramis and d'Artagnan," he says finally. Now that he's said it, it becomes real, the full force of the information he's just imparted hitting him like an avalanche and he feels like all the breath had been knocked from his lungs.

Porthos breaks the momentary silence with a sweep of his hand across the top of a barrel covered with tin cups and plates, sending the tableware flying across the tent in a shocking outburst of rage, the clattering of the metal hitting the ground followed by a string of curses that Henri has never even heard before. Athos is chillingly composed, his expression blank and his blue eyes cold.

"How much blood is a substantial amount, lad?" he asks carefully.

Henri can't meet the older man's gaze. "Hubert says enough to kill a man…but we can't know for certain whose blood it is or if there was a fight or even if it's human, it could easily be from an injured horse or from a wild animal…" Henri is saying, babbling somewhat incoherently, anything to make that cold, dead stare in the Captain's eyes disappear.

"Were there any other signs of a struggle or a battle, pistol wadding, shot balls, disturbed bushes or undergrowth?" Porthos demands to know.

Henri shakes his head miserably. "No signs that there was an extended firefight and there was very little in the way of undergrowth or foliage, it's rocky terrain sir, a convenient place for an ambush. Hubert was very thorough, he and Jacques and Bonet went over the entire area meticulously. They also searched a large swathe of countryside around the spot where they found the horses, for hours, looking for any possible signs of them, clothing, blood…bodies," he add much quieter, "but nothing sir, they've just…disappeared."

"Men don't just disappear! They're either killed or taken as prisoners but they don't just vanish! Were there no tracks in the snow or on the road?" Porthos asks with barely controlled fury.

"Yes, sir, but some ended at the river, others seemed to overlap as if they'd gone one way and then turned right back around….there was no clear trail to follow."

"The tracks could belong to anyone, Porthos, dozens of soldiers, bandits, refugees walk and ride along the borders daily. They could have doubled back to confuse us, or possibly had a vessel waiting at the river. They might even be holding them in any of the many ruins along the road," Athos says, mulling over the possibilities. "Henri, have Hubert give the scouts a full report and then have them sent to me at once. Also, if Aramis and d'Artagnan had changed horses then the dispatches have probably already been delivered and haven't fallen into enemy hands. We can't know this for sure though unless we send riders to the outpost to confirm," the Captain says, considering. "Send four men, our best riders, to the outpost outside of Arras immediately to make inquiries. I want to know every detail of their stopover there as well as anything suspicious that our forces may have seen in the surrounding areas. "

Henri nods and suddenly remembers the grain sack he's holding tightly in his left hand.

"Captain, Hubert told me…he said you should probably…that you'd want be given…" he stutters, not sure how to continue, when Porthos takes two steps forward and yanks the sack from his hand.

Henri watches, in utter despair as Porthos reaches into the sack and removes the blood-stained item within; Aramis' hat.

Porthos tosses the sack aside and handles the sturdy leather hat gently, probably searching for holes or tears that might indicate a head injury, but aside from the blood on the brim, there is no other damage to Aramis' beloved head-wear.

The Captain is still completely emotionless, his expression hasn't wavered even for a second but Porthos looks stricken and Henri feels the depth of his despair. Aramis is a well-loved figure in the regiment; quick witted and jovial, and he is also a man of God whose faith has been a source of solace and hope for even the most hardened soldiers amongst them, and Henri has a great deal of affection for the man. D'Artagnan on the other hand is not everyone's favourite, there are many who are jealous of the lad's position in the hierarchy, but to a man, he is revered for his loyalty and his bravery, the likes of which most of the men have never seen before.

"Very well, go on now, lad, you have your orders, tell Hubert to confer with the scouts and send the riders to Arras," Athos reminds him sternly, rising carefully from his chair. It's been nearly four months since his injury but there are moments that Henri sees a stiffness in the Captain's movements that indicates some amount of lingering pain; the injury, a slash across his torso, had been ghastly, and Henri imagines that the skin and muscle probably still feel the sting of mending flesh, but Athos does this utmost to hide his discomfort from his men.

"Yes, sir, I'll make all the arrangements immediately," the young man replies, suddenly feeling a fierce rush of emotion and the sting of tears, and he stumbles over his words. The ever-astute Porthos notices and rests one hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"We'll find them, boy, our scouts are the best in the army. They're not dead, that's for sure, the pair of them have more lives than a pack of stray cats combined, trust me, I know," he says reassuringly and Henri meets his gaze and suddenly feels hopeful.

"Yes, of course we will," Henri replies confidently, and he salutes his superiors and hurries to search for Hubert. The quicker the scouts are on the road, the faster Aramis and d'Artagnan will be safely returned to the regiment.

* * *

Aramis wakes to the oh-so-familiar ache of a battle-incurred injury, something his tired and battered body has sadly become far too accustomed to.

He opens his eyes slowly and tries to take stock; he's not in the infirmary in the French camp, the stone walls, heavy wooden door and tiny barred window near the ceiling attest to that. Night has fallen but lamps have been lit around the corners of the cell and Aramis can see well enough to take stock of his surroundings. Surprisingly, he's lying on a bed, a proper one with a straw stuffed mattress, covered by a clean-smelling blanket and his clothes are hanging neatly over the back of a chair beside him. Clad in only his drawers and an unfamiliar shirt, his jewelled crucifix still around his neck, he discovers that his shoulder wound, caused by a pistol shot, feels as if it's been stitched and cared for properly and is wrapped in a clean bandage. It takes a few more minutes for him to remember exactly what had happened, but when he does he bolts upright, a move he regrets at once since it leaves him breathless with pain, but he pushes it aside and calls out a name.

'D'Artagnan!" he cries, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, wondering if the boy is somewhere close, maybe in the cell beside him, and he prays that he will hear him call out and he'll answer, so that Aramis will know that he's alive and safe.

When no reply comes Aramis calls out his name again, louder, and he attempts to get to his feet, intending to dress himself, when the heavy wooden door swings open, startling him.

"There is no reason to be alarmed, Senor," a uniformed Spanish soldier says politely, entering his cell. The door remains open but it's guarded by at least four heavily armed men, Aramis notes, and he sinks back down onto the bed, knowing that he is in no shape to take on even one of them.

"Where is the lad I was with?" Aramis demands defiantly in perfect Spanish, his bare feet freezing on the cold stone floor.

The Spanish officer takes a few steps closer. "In the cell beside you. He's quite the menace, your comrade, fought like a lion protecting her cub when we separated the two of you, I'd not have expected it from someone so…unimpressive," the Spaniard says with a sneer.

Aramis wants to reply to that slur but he bites back a retort, fearing for the boy's safety. "Is he injured?"

"He attacked four of my men, he'll be sporting an considerable array of bruises for many days to come."

"If you're planning on a prisoner exchange, I assure you it's in your best interest not to harm him any further," Aramis warns sternly, knowing full well that he is far from intimidating, clad only in his underwear and with a serious injury to his shoulder, but that doesn't stop him from speaking up on behalf of his younger brother.

"My dear sir, I don't think you are in a position to be giving me advice or your opinion. Now, I have it on good authority that the pair of you were carrying important orders…oh yes, a spy in your midst," he adds when Aramis literally feels his jaw drop in shock.

"We carried no orders, and if we had you would have found them already on our persons or in our saddlebags," Aramis replies smoothly, composing himself after his unintended lapse in self-control. "You have been sadly misinformed I fear."

The Spaniard, a ruddy, heavy-set man of around fifty, nods slowly. "Or maybe you'd already delivered these orders before you were intercepted by my men. My spy is very reliable, Senor, I know for a fact that you and that stable-boy were carrying classified correspondence."

"Even if we were carrying orders, and I insist on my honour that we were not, how would we possibly know what was inside a sealed military pouch?" Aramis asks, grasping at straws.

"A spy, remember? Of course you would know, you are Aramis, lieutenant and second-in-command to the infamous Athos, Captain of the Musketeers, the Comte de la Fere, and that street urchin is d'Artagnan, the wretched boy who killed one of my finest officers. What a happy coincidence that it was the pair of you sent out on this mission, I couldn't have planned it better myself as I've been biding my time, waiting to get my hands on that murderous little bastard!"

"You have referred to him as a stable boy and a street urchin when your 'spy' should have informed you that he is one of the most highly decorated soldiers in our regiment, and more valuable than myself in a prisoner exchange," Aramis informs him proudly, trying his utmost to hide the horror he feels that the Spanish are aware of the boy's identity.

The Spaniard laughs. "That skinny, long-haired, unkempt…creature is a highly decorated Musketeer? He's a dishonourable ruffian who killed a titled Spanish officer in an unfair duel," he spits. "Truly, if I was a less patient man I would have had him on the rack the minute I was informed of his name."

"D'Artagnan fought fairly and honourably! A dozen of your men witnessed the duel and they brought no objection to the outcome!" Aramis counters angrily. "At any rate, even if I had the knowledge you seem to think I possess, what is my guarantee that you'll let us live?"

"My word is your guarantee. I think it's in your best interest that you share what you know and maybe we can come to some sort of agreement?"

Aramis narrows his eyes. "What kind of agreement?"

"Apparently you are of noble Spanish blood, and a man of God I'm told," the Spaniard says pleasantly.

Aramis raises one brow. "Your spy?"

The officer chuckles. "No, the boy, when you were unconscious and he was bargaining for your life. He told my men that you are the product of a marriage between a noble Spanish Lady and a French father, and that you'd dedicated your life to God and the Catholic church until you were taken, against your will, from the monastery at Douai and forced back into the King's service due to your skills as a healer."

Oh God, stupid, reckless boy, using half-truths to save his life…in exchange for what?

"And what did he offer as a bargaining chip?" Aramis asks tersely.

"Himself," the Spaniard sneers. "Brash fool, I already have him in my custody, and what I'll do with him aside from beat him till his skin peels off or hang him and throw his body to the wolves is beyond me."

Aramis feels all the blood drain from his face and he wills his entire body to remain utterly still; if he lunges for the Spaniard's throat he's sure to seal the boy's death warrant as well as his own. "So what kind of agreement were you going to offer me?"

"Simple. Give me the information I desire and I will set you free, unharmed. My spies will spread the word that it was the boy who gave up the French secrets, he was the traitor, not you, and that he died of dysentery or some other foul disease. You, on the other hand will have your reputation intact and your freedom, you need never spare the brat another thought."

Aramis feels disgusted and sick; that this man would think he'd offer up d'Artagnan like a lamb to the slaughter willingly makes him physically ill. But he continues to play the game, he must see where it will lead. "My other option?"

"Your only other option is to remain here in this cell, indefinitely, to be used at some point in time in a prisoner exchange. I won't be responsible for torturing a monk," he says, crossing himself as he does so.

"And d'Artagnan?"

"His fate is sealed, my dear compatriot, there is nothing you could possibly offer me would prevent that!"

"He's just a boy, surely if you had a son or a nephew his age you'd want a gentleman such as yourself to show mercy?" Aramis reasons. "He didn't even chose to fight that duel of his own accord, it was me who arranged it, you can ask any of the men who were present. If someone is to be punished for the death of your officer, it should be me."

"What an odd coincidence; the boy said the same thing, that _he_ should be punished and not you, when I mentioned your part in that farce of a duel. You see, Senor, I already knew all the details, my men were very thorough in their report of the events of that horrible night."

"If they were so thorough why did they not tell you it was a fair fight?" Aramis challenges. By this time, his shoulder is throbbing, he's chilled to the bone and desperately needs to lie down. But not until they come to some agreement on d'Artagnan's fate. "Look, if you reconsider your plans for d'Artagnan I might be willing answering some of the questions you may have, say, regarding troop movement," he lies smoothly, in an attempt to buy some time for his brother. He's sure that Athos and Porthos have become aware of their disappearance; there is no way that the Captain will leave them, or any of his regiment for that matter, to die in a Spanish prison.

A soldier appears at the door carrying a tray of food, another behind him with medical supplies. Both await orders from their superior officer.

"No, that's out of the question. You have until tomorrow morning to consider both the options I have put forward. As for the brat, I'm sorry, you cannot bargain for his safety or his freedom, only for your own. He will be punished for his crimes, regardless of what you choose to do."

"Then take all that away. If he is to be mistreated I won't be catered to while he suffers," Aramis says defiantly, waving a hand at the two soldiers carrying the trays."

"Senor Aramis, staying alive and fit is not an option; you are of no use to me dead. Now, if you do not eat or you don't allow your wound to be treated I will take it out on your beloved comrade. If you cooperate, I will allow him some bread and water, if you don't he will receive 5 lashes for your stubbornness."

"You said you will punish him either way. What's another 5 lashes?" Aramis says bitterly. "I'll suffer alongside of him."

"Well, since he's unconscious at the moment I hadn't planned on getting started just yet, but if you insist?"

"NO!" Aramis cries out horrified and he berates himself for his foolish outburst. "I'll cooperate, please, just leave him be, and give him some food and water, I beg of you, as a Christian and a gentleman, surely you can look past your need for revenge and see him as he is; an orphaned lad, penniless and with no prospects, forced into the military when he had no other options."

"Good Lord, the two of you are quite pathetic, aren't you? Begging to take the other's punishment, pleading for each other's lives; do the French have no sense of self-preservation or self-respect?"

"We're Musketeers," Aramis replies proudly, "All for one and one for all is our motto, so no, we're not very big on self-preservation."

The Spaniard chuckles at Aramis' reply and waves the soldiers into the cell, indicating that they should put the trays on the small table.

"My physician will treat your wound and you will eat what you've been provided and I will see that the brat is given bread and water, agreed?"

"Agreed," Aramis says, feeling lightheaded from exhaustion and pain and hunger, but mostly from his fear for d'Artagnan.

"I will return in the morning for your decision, though I suspect that you've given me your answer already. I very much doubt you'll be giving up the boy in exchange for your freedom, so maybe I will take under consideration your counter-offer after all; information for better treatment of the wretch, we shall see how generous I am feeling after a good night's rest."

"I will pray for our Lord to offer you peace this night so you will show mercy to those whose fate you hold in your hands," Aramis bites out, struggling to sound sincere when all he wants to do it gut the bastard and leave him to die…slowly.

"I wish the same upon you, Senor Aramis, so that we might find mutual ground when the sun next rises," the older man said with false pleasantness, and he departs, leaving Aramis to be forcefully tended to while d'Artagnan suffers injured and alone.

* * *

D'Artagnan can't remember the last time he'd felt so cold.

They'd spent most of the winter on the frozen and muddy battlefields, in the rain and in the snow, but the adrenaline and the fact that they were constantly in motion, always running or fighting or moving on to the next bloody skirmish seemed to keep the cold at bay, and at night, in their tent, Porthos, the worrying fool, would pile all their extra clothing onto of his slowly healing body, his brother's thoughtfulness providing far more warmth than the flimsy pile of shirts he'd so carefully layered on top of him.

There's no Porthos and no blankets or extra shirts in his freezing cell, and only his doublet and his cloak for warmth and a pile of straw in one corner as a bed, his bruised and aching body shivering violently as the wind blows into the room through the small window with the broken glass near the ceiling, bringing bursts of snowflakes now and again, until the freezing stone floor is partially covered in a shiny white blanket of snow.

He barely remembers the attack on the road after they'd successfully delivered the dispatches that Athos had entrusted to them. They'd been heading south, away from the outpost east of Arras and back to the Musketeers camp; Aramis had been shot and he himself had taken a blow to the head when they'd been ambushed by at least 20 Spanish soldiers who'd been lying in wait for them. How they'd known where to find them, d'Artagnan has no clue, but it was obvious that they'd been expecting them or at least tracking them and somehow they'd been aware of their identities as well. It was inconceivable to even consider a traitor among his fellow Musketeers and d'Artagnan tried to think anyone from outside their regiment who could have possibly known of their mission.

Dragged off their horses, they'd been searched bodily, their saddlebags and saddles and tack thoroughly examined, and they were thrown into a cart, transferred to a barge and then forced to walk, Aramis barely conscious, bleeding heavily and d'Artagnan carrying most of his weight for the last half hour or so of their ordeal until they'd been deposited, together, in this cell somewhere deep within this unknown Spanish stronghold.

With Aramis in dire need of medical assistance d'Artagnan weaved a tale of half-truths to get sympathy from his jailers for his part-Spanish, almost-a-monk, devoutly Catholic brother and he'd succeeded and Aramis had been tended to by a proper physician, his wound cleaned and sewn shut neatly and carefully. When the physician was done a haughty officer with an expression similar to a permanent sneer entered the cell and informed him that he was aware of their identities, their roles in that blasted duel, and he gleefully imparted to d'Artagnan that they would pay their long overdue debt to the lash for killing a Spanish officer.

In a desperate attempt to spare Aramis a whipping, d'Artagnan had pleaded with the Spaniard to let the injured Aramis go free, reminding him that his brother was a holy man, warning the Spaniard of the wrath of God as well as all the other dire consequences his actions would have, anything he could remember from his catechism lessons and he offered to take punishment for both of them; Aramis would never survive the lash in the state he was in and d'Artagnan would die before he'd let them whip the injured and incapacitated Aramis for something that what entirely his responsibility. The Spaniard seemed to blanch when d'Artagnan mentioned God and hell and the devil and the older man had crossed himself and swiftly left them alone in their cell.

At some point they'd come to take Aramis away, and d'Artagnan had panicked, terrified and anxious for his unconscious brother's safety, and he'd launched himself at the guards, foolishly and recklessly, and he'd been given a thrashing that his body will not be forgetting anytime soon. One eye is swollen shut and his left shoulder is dislocated, the rest of his aching body littered with ugly, swelling bruises and he thinks some ribs might be cracked, he can't be sure though since Aramis is not at his side to examine them or put his shoulder back into its socket. Someone has left some bread and a small metal pitcher of what he assumes is water, but he is in too much pain to lift himself up to eat or drink, despite the persistent rumbling of his empty stomach.

The heavy wooden door creaks open and is immediately shut. A candle illuminates the pitch black of his cell but d'Artagnan can hardly muster the strength to care. Whoever it is, d'Artagnan is sure it's not a social call.

A uniformed figure kneels beside him and brings the plate of bread and pitcher of water closer to where he lies listlessly on the mouldy straw.

"I only have a moment," a voice says in accented French, "so tell me if there is something I can do to help."

Shocked, d'Artagnan opens his good eye and blinks, trying to make out the face of his benevolent visitor. It takes him a moment to place the face, but when he does, he is thoroughly surprised.

"I know you," he says slowly, his mouth dry and his voice rough. "You were there, at the duel, you were beside your Captain, you're the Lieutenant. It was you who told Athos about the poison."

The Spaniard nods.

"You saved my life, thank you, if you hadn't spoken I would be dead," d'Artangan says, grateful. "Do you know if my friend is alright?" he asks anxiously.

"The Spanish monk? Yes, he's fine, the General is a religious man, your friend is very lucky. Now, quickly, tell me if you need any of your injuries treated!" he hisses, his gaze darting to the door fearfully.

D'Artagnan swallows. "My shoulder, it's out of its socket, can you put it back for me?" he asks hopefully.

The other man appears horrified but he nods reluctantly and with great care lifts d'Artagnan up to lean back against the wall.

By the time he's seated, d'Artagnan in practically whimpering in pain, but he's doing his valiant best to keep as quiet as possible. "Do you have something I can bite down on?" he asks the Spaniard; if he screams he'll bring the entire stronghold down upon them.

The Spaniard nods and quickly removes a small, flat leather sheaf, meant to hold a dagger, from inside his pocket. He's obviously come unarmed, probably in case d'Artagnan would attempt to use his own weapons against him; smart man, he thinks.

"Thank you," d'Artagnan says gratefully and accepts the small, leather case. "Have you ever done this before?"

The Spanish officer shakes his head. "No, but I've seen others do it, many times. Should I try?"

"Yes, please," d'Artagnan replies and he puts the leather case in between his teeth. "Alright, on three?"

The Spaniard nods grimly and d'Artagnan bites down hard as the other man counts, evenly to three, and pulls d'Artagnan's misshapen shoulder forward and back into place.

The pain is so excruciating that all the air is punched from his lungs, the leather case falls from his mouth and his head flies back, slamming hard against the rough stone wall and he see stars, tears running in rivulets down his filthy face and yet not a sound escapes his dry and aching throat. The Spaniard takes a cloth, maybe a handkerchief, from the pocket of his coat and wets it from the pitcher and he cleans d'Artagnan's face carefully, wiping away some of the grime and dried blood until the fine white material has turned almost black and the officer appears satisfied that he's done his best.

"Listen, I must go. Eat, I don't know when you'll be fed again, the General is cruel and has no respect for the treaties concerning the treatment of prisoners of war. I'll try to come again tomorrow, alright?"

"Bless you, friend," d'Artagnan whispers harshly, still panting from his ordeal, sweat matting his hair despite the frozen air and the snow-covered floor. "Once again you've come to my aid."

"Tomorrow I'll find a way to close off that window from the outside, but now I must go," he says anxiously.

D'Artagnan nods in understanding, but he has an urgent question for the man before he goes. "Why are risking yourself to help me?" he asks softly, confused but extremely grateful.

The Spanish officer stiffens slightly. "You fought bravely that night, and my Captain wronged you, it's my duty as a gentleman to make amends," he explains with complete sincerity and d'Artagnan is thankful that the war has not stripped this young officer of his humanity, as it has done to so many men on both sides. "Now eat and rest, I must go!" he says and the door creaks open and shut, and d'Artagnan thinks the sound of the metal bar coming down on the other side sounds a bit like a guillotine falling.

He hopes that isn't a sign, foreboding his fate.


	2. Chapter 2

Note; Sorry there are no tildes on the n in Senor, when I figure out how to do it I will come back and fix it!

Chapter 2

* * *

Aramis and d'Artagnan have been gone for three full days now. Actually, Athos doesn't know precisely at what point they'd been ambushed, but they'd departed the Musketeer's camp three days earlier, delivered their correspondence to the Captain of the small French outpost the same day and spent the night within the safety of the stronghold. Early yesterday morning they'd saddled fresh horses since one of theirs had thrown a shoe and the other seemed to be suffering unduly from the cold. They bid the Captain farewell and headed back towards the Musketeers camp. Aside from their horses and belongings, no one has seen them since.

The fact that no bodies have been found is the only thing keeping their hope alive. Henri chose to lead the patrol that Athos had ordered sent to the outpost himself. Athos had wanted them to ride out the previous afternoon, as soon as Hubert and his men had returned with Aramis and d'Artagnan's horses, but a fresh snowfall prevented the anxious Henri from departing with Lacroix, Laurent and Pierre and they'd been forced to wait until early this morning. The four young Musketeers had just returned an hour earlier, sometime near dusk, disappointed that they'd received no helpful information, aside from the fact that the dispatches had been safely delivered. On the road to and from their destination the Musketeers hadn't found any new clues, nor had the scouts that had been scouring the area all throughout the day.

Athos and Porthos have spent the past two hours conferring with the scouts in the mess tent. They'd gone over maps, discussed possible hiding places - an old mill and a derelict monastery – between the Musketeers camp and the area around the main Spanish stronghold of Arras that the Spanish could be using as an outpost or a way-station between the French troops and the walled town. Athos was almost certain that his Musketeers were not actually within the walls of the Spanish-held Arras… _yet_. The General has his own spies, diligently following every movement in and out of the fortified walls of the most important Spanish garrison in their immediate area, and comings and goings have apparently been limited in the past week, with no sign of the two Musketeers being taken into the town. Porthos confirms this by riding to the General's camp himself to meet with the spies, who assure him that neither them nor any of their comrades who patrol the area around the clock have seen any sign of Aramis or d'Artagnan. The fact that they are almost certainly not within the walls is a huge relief to Athos; mounting a rescue mission inside of Arras would be suicidal and logistically impossible.

The scouts are four men who are military trained and hail from the areas around Arras. They are not Musketeers and they report directly to General Dubois and are 'on loan' so to speak to the Musketeers whose own scouts are exemplary but do not know this northern terrain like Michel, Alphonse, Denis and Nicolas do. These are pseudonyms since the men fear for their families and their property, seeing as their homes are so close to Arras and the Spanish troops stationed there. They wear non-descript clothing and always have their faces covered, even from their superiors so Athos has never seen them without their hats, cloaks and scarves tied around the bottom of their faces.

Porthos cannot hide the fact that he doesn't trust them. He doesn't doubt their skills; they are cunning and stealthy and move like ghosts around the countryside and have not disappointed the Musketeers in any way since they've be assigned to the regiment . But Porthos had complained to Athos on more than one occasion that it's unnerving to speak to these men who hide their faces behind dark, muslin scarves; if you can't see a man's expression, he insists, you can't tell if he's lying or telling you the truth, if he's an honest man or a thief, and these four men hold the lives of thousands in their hands. They do no interact with the rest of the regiment in any way, shape or form; they eat, sleep, bathe and pray on their own they even have their own latrines as they do not want anyone to see any recognisable scars or marks they might have on their bodies. Athos tends to agree with Porthos to some extent but he also understands that these men have families to protect, the job they do is very well paid but comes with a high personal risk, he can't blame them for being cautious. They are also probably their only hope of finding Aramis and d'Artagnan.

Athos and Porthos have not discussed what a prolonged absence of their brothers could mean. It hasn't been necessary. They are both fully aware of the fact that although they might have been alive when they'd been taken – a hope they'd been clinging to due to the absence of anything to prove otherwise – one or both of them could easily be dead by now. Or the Spanish may be torturing them for information, something they'd become quite notorious for despite the treaties that had been signed laying down a set of standards for the treatment of prisoners of war. If the amount of blood found in the snow is any indication, one or both are probably injured, something that makes Athos even more apprehensive, as he doubts their wounds would be treated properly.

Aramis fortunately has been, for the most part, fit the past few months, which is to his advantage if he's been injured but d'Artagnan has only recently began to eat normally and he's managed to regain only some of the endurance and the strength that had eluded after the injuries he'd sustained four months prior. He's still far too thin and lacks the stamina he'd had when they'd left Paris but he's lost the gauntness that had made Athos physically cringe and his colour had returned, the waxy-paleness giving way to the return of his natural, swarthy Gascon colouring.

The only reason Athos had allowed him to accompany Aramis on his urgent mission instead of Porthos was due to Porthos' ill health, that and the boy's irritating and insistent needling that he be allowed to go and his heated complaints that Athos was treating him like something broken and fragile. If he had done so, it was not consciously, because although Athos had a very special place in his heart for the lad, he is also exceedingly careful not to show any deference to him since doing so would sow discontent, something Athos would not tolerate in his regiment. In the end Athos had relented, and he hopes to God that his decision hadn't caused any undue harm to come to either of his brothers; although Aramis is an experienced soldier and superb marksman he would expect d'Artagnan to have his back and by the same token he shouldn't have to take care of a weakened d'Artagnan. The fact that Aramis himself had encouraged the decision to take their youngest along does nothing to soothe Athos' conscience in any way.

It's snowing again and it's far too late into the evening to make any further progress tonight so it has been agreed that the scouts will check the areas they'd mapped out together at first light. Porthos has borrowed a cot from the infirmary and made Athos' tent his temporary home until the others are found as he refuses to miss even one update or report given to Athos. He's asleep now, exhausted from his mad dash to the main French camp earlier to meet with the General's spies, as well as under the weather. He and at least a dozen other Musketeers had been suffering from a bout of winter ague; chills, fever and a sore throat and it's the first time the big man has actually slept soundly in the past few days. If Athos had accidentally put a drop of Aramis' special sleeping potion in Porthos' wine, well no one is the wiser, and his brother desperately needs the rest, especially since he's insistent on going along with the scouts on their morning mission. Athos will likely send Henri along as well; someone will need to keep an eye on Porthos and the scouts, while decent men, are not going to worry about Porthos' health whereas Henri is not only one his best soldiers, he is one of the kindest young men in the regiment, he'll watch over Porthos as d'Artaganan or Aramis would if they could.

…and as they will again, as soon as they're found, safe and whole.

* * *

Aramis has spent the entirety of his second day in captivity confined to his sickbed. His shoulder injury had started to show signs of infection and the physician had reopened the wound , cleaned it and sewn it shut again, and to do it he'd forced a sleeping draught down Aramis' throat – literally at gunpoint by one of the Spanish officer's men, and with the threat of harm to d'Artagnan as an incentive to swallow.

By nightfall he's awake again, fevered and restless, and a literal army of men comes to tend to him with the haughty Spaniard standing watch at the door of his cell, supervising. Any protest from Aramis is followed by threats to his brother so he simply gives in for the moment since it's the best way he knows to keep d'Artagnan safe until they're rescued.

He's asked the physician repeatedly if anyone has seen to the boy but although the old man appears sympathetic he says nothing. He is a skilled healer and he works quickly and efficiently and Aramis is sure the infection will pass quickly. The only problem with that if he's lucid and well, the Spaniard – a important and titled General the physician had informed him earlier in the day - will expect him to give him his decision regarding his and d'Artagnan's fate. For the moment, he plays possum and tries to appear much sicker than he really is when the General sits in the chair beside his bed and requests exactly that.

"I'd given you until this morning to decide how you wanted to proceed, Senor, and I've been patient due to your fevered state. However, my physician informs me that despite your condition, you are well enough to discuss…business with me," the General says in an arrogant tone. "Now, what do you say, my dear sir?"

Aramis pries his eyes open, blinking theatrically and he pulls the blankets up to his neck, shivering and sinking deeper into the mattress. "With all due respect, can this…wait…until tomorrow? I fear…I am too…unwell to think clearly, Senor," he says, stuttering the words through chattering teeth, doing his utmost to convince the loathsome Spaniard that he is too ill to be fully coherent.

"I hope you're not trying to deceive me, Senor Aramis, because if you are, the boy will receive those five lashes I'd promised last night. Now, are you truly too ill or are you trying to buy that wretch a reprieve?" the General demands of Aramis.

"Lying in a sin, Senor," Aramis says with contrived affront.

The General rises and paces the floor of the cell, his silence is unnerving to the anxious Aramis.

"And yet, I think that you are lying to me, Senor, despite that fact," he says finally. "My physician says that you are indeed fevered, but not incapacitated," he informs Aramis calmly.

Aramis frowns. "Regardless, I do not feel that I am capable of making an informed decision at the moment. I am in a great deal of pain and my head is throbbing from the fever that has taken hold of me," Aramis informs him weakly, praying that he sounds convincing as d'Artagnan's well-being depends on it.

"I wonder if I should test your sincerity, by, say, bringing the boy in here and giving him a good thrashing. Would you suddenly improve and begin to talk? Or maybe even rise from your sickbed and defend the whelp or would you just lie there, listlessly, too ill to raise your head from that pillow. That could be an interesting exercise, indeed."

Aramis knows the bastard General is goading him and he's trying his utmost not to rise to the bait. "If you were to do something like that it would be dishonourable of me to not attempt to shield him, whether I'm physically capable or not. He's barely older than a child, can you not find it in your heart to show him some compassion?" Aramis asks feebly, continuing his ruse.

"He's a murdering bastard! And you keep saying he's just a boy, but my men say he's old enough to be married!" the General replies angrily, still pacing. "The more you defend him, the more you provoke me, Senor Aramis, I suggest you spend your time sharing some of your Musketeers' secrets instead if you want to keep him alive, because it's obvious you are not interested in going free and leaving him behind. My new offer is this; give me information or he's whipped every day, three times a day, five lashes at a time, so that he will never heal, every stroke of the whip will fall on some older wound, making a disgusting, infected, pulpy mess of skin on his back. And he will suffer, I promise you that, he will feel every single strike, and in between he will lie on the cold, stone floor of his cell where he will writhe in agony and burn with fever, alone, hungry and thirsty, his wounds festering…"

"ENOUGH!" Aramis roars, and he eases himself up until he's sitting in his bed, both hands buried deep in his hair, tugging at the sweaty strands in horror and frustration and pure fear. "Enough! I will do what you ask, just please, let him be," he mutters, desolate. The wound in his shoulder is throbbing and his skin is burning, and he knows he's fevered again. And he's expected to negotiate for the life of one of his brothers, their youngest, and the only one of the them that is still mostly untainted by the violence and the brutality of the life of a Musketeer and a soldier and Aramis, desperate to keep him safe, feels utterly lost.

"Alejandro, it seems that our monk has indeed committed a sin; he's been lying to us," he says to one of his men, indicating Aramis, who no longer resembles the shivering and weakened patient he did moments before, "and as a result his friend will be punished. Five lashes for the filthy whelp will do for now, and in the meanwhile we will give Senor Aramis a chance to contemplate and repent for his sin while he mends."

"NO!" Aramis cries out and he swings his legs over the side of the bed, quickly losing his balance and he crashes to the floor, his head hitting the uneven stones violently and he momentarily loses consciousness.

Seconds later he is being lifted, gently, to his bed and the General commands that the physician be summoned to see to the cut on the side of his face and the swelling on his temple. His shoulder has gone numb but Aramis expects the pain to return with full force once he catches his breath.

But that never happens, because the physician appears at once and a vile potion is once again poured down his throat and despite his rambling protestations, and his fever induced, near-hysterical begging for his little brother's life, the General appeared unmoved.

"If you hurt him, I won't help you," Aramis warns for the hundredth time, his now words slurring.

"But if I don't hurt him you won't help me anyway," the General replies flatly, "because you have yet to take my threats seriously."

For the first time in many years, Aramis finds himself without his infamous restraint and his uncanny ability to use his wit and charm to keep control of even the most difficult situations; his injury has rendered his body weak and the fever and the drugs have made his mind cloudy, and he is powerless to do anything to stop the odious General from putting d'Artagnan to the lash.

The sleeping draught is potent and it quickly takes hold, and Aramis tumbles anguished, and against his will, into a dark and dreamless sleep.

* * *

D'Artagnan spent the previous night huddled in the corner farthest from the open window, the two frozen stone walls on either side his best protection against the wind. In the morning, he'd nearly wept from gratitude when he opened his eyes and realised that his unlikely friend had indeed managed to close off the broken window from the outside, using what appears to be a tarp that although thoroughly covers the entire opening, still allows enough light to pass so that d'Artagnan will not be bathed in total darkness.

He's not much of a praying man, and he doubts with his multitude of sins that he'd ever find his way to Heaven, but d'Artagnan spends the better part of his day begging God to keep the seriously wounded Aramis safe while they wait for Athos and Porthos to find them. He's become somewhat delirious from cold and hunger and thirst and without realising it, his prayers become a continuous mantra. He prays for Aramis and for a swift rescue before his brother dies. Aramis is a devout man and more so now after his time at Douai, surely God would protect such a man from further harm? He thanks God for the benevolent lieutenant and begs Him to keep the man and his family safe from harm. He prays for the safety of his regiment and his brothers, Athos and Porthos, who he knows will be out of their minds with worry. And he prays for Constance, the kindest and most generous soul in all of France. He'd told her this once and he'd meant it with all his heart, and he asks God to give her strength in the event that he returns to Paris in a box instead of mounted on his horse.

The day wanes and d'Artagnan drifts between sleep and awareness, rising only once on trembling legs to relieve himself. There is no chamber pot so with no other choice he kicks some leaves and twigs into the farthest corner and when he's done he covers the puddle of urine with the debris that had fallen into his cell in from the window, and he hopes that the dank cell does not begin to reek from the smell. When he's done he stumbles back to his corner where he holds his injured left arm carefully with his right and huddles miserably under his cloak until sleep takes him again.

At some point in the evening the heavy door opens and he's shocked awake as four soldiers enter his cell and drag him to his feet. His shoulder is jarred painfully and he bites the inside of his mouth to keep from crying out. Behind them, the General strides in, carrying a lamp, and d'Artagnan can see his face is twisted into a mask of rage. The soldiers release him and d'Artagnan struggles to stay upright but his pride doesn't allow him to fall.

"Strip down to your drawers," he demands in perfect French and d'Artagnan goes rigid with shock.

"I'd rather die," the Gascon says defiantly, as he imagines what removing his clothes could mean.

The General steps forward and deals him a hard blow to the face that sends him hurtling backwards towards the wall.

"Filthy degenerate, we are Christian soldiers, you French pig!" he roars, spittle flying from his mouth. "Now strip or my men will do it for you!"

With no other choice, d'Artagnan slowly begins to remove his clothes, dropping them into a pile in the corner until he's only wearing his shirt, stockings and drawers.

"Everything aside from your underclothes, off!" the General demands and d'Artagnan complies, wondering if he could manage to break the General's neck before his men kill him. He's tempted, by God he wants to rip the man's entrails out but he wills himself to remain calm, mostly for the sake of his brother, whose fate is still unknown to him.

Standing in only his drawers, expression defiant, he is pushed out of the cell and into the freezing corridor by the General's men and he's marched up the cold stone steps and shockingly, outside into the darkened courtyard. He walks over the snow covered ground as steadily as he can but his bare feet have gone numb and he stumbles, only to be righted viciously by one of the soldiers, who drags him forward by his injured left arm.

A few more steps and he pushed against a post, his hands pulled above his head, wrenching his injured shoulder and this time d'Artagnan cannot stop the scream that escapes from his dry and aching throat.

"Your friend, the monk, has failed you, filthy wretch, and you will pay the price for his stupidity," the General hisses. He takes a long, leather horse whip from one of the guards, making sure that d'Artagnan can see him running his hand over the smooth strip of hide like he's caressing a lover.

D'Artagnan remembers seeing some of his comrades sporting marks from the lash, some so deep that even decades later their backs are still scarred. A few of them even still complain of pain, whether phantom or real, but he's never felt the sting of the lash himself and in all honesty he's afraid, not of the marks or the pain, but afraid that he won't be able to retain his dignity when the sleek leather falls and rips the skin from his back.

Five hard strikes come, each one like fire licking across his back, tearing deep into his skin, through flesh and muscle, and it happens so fast he never even gets a chance to scream. When they cut him down he's panting and gasping for breath but nothing, not even a whimper escapes his throat, the shock and the erratic pounding of his heart stealing all the breath from his lungs and rendering him mute. He is dragged back to his cell in a daze by two of the soldiers who throw him onto the pile of clothing he's left behind. The General enters, using a cloth to wipe away d'Artagnan's blood from his hands, and when he meets the Gascon's defiant gaze, he lets out a booming laugh.

"Your friend said you are a highly decorated Musketeer. All I see is a skinny, dirty whelp with an unnatural tolerance for pain. Are you one of those degenerates who uses pain for pleasure?" he queries.

D'Artagnan wants to ask him how such an upstanding Christian gentleman such as himself would even now about such things. The bastard has mistaken pure shock for some sort of twisted pleasure, obviously too stupid to realise that his body's reaction to the pain was wholly physical and not in any way unnatural. He knows the agony is yet to come, when the adrenaline rush wears off and his breathing and heart rate slow, and the damaged flesh begins to try to mend itself, swelling painfully, pushing out any dirt and debris stuck in the wounds, crusting over with painful, itchy scabs. He's had enough similar injuries from swords and daggers to know exactly what it will feel like…only worse.

D'Artagnan just lays there, his chest and face thankfully resting on his discarded clothes, shivering ferociously from the cold and trying desperately to catch his breath. He is unaware of the fact that the General and his men have left and that someone else has entered his cell.

"Peace, it's just me," the lieutenant from the previous evening tells him quietly. "I'm here to tend to you, I warned the General that his fun would end quickly if your wounds became infected and you died too quickly," he says, and d'Artagnan can hear the disgust in his voice.

"Please tell me…have you seen my comrade…is he well?" d'Artagnan inquires desperately, stuttering the words out in between harsh pants.

"He's fine, I told you, the General is terrified to harm him, he fears the wrath of God, the pompous ass."

"What's your name, friend?" d'Artagnan asks, his voice a coarse whisper, his breath still coming in bursts and gasps.

"Miguel, and I know from the others that you are d'Artagnan," he says kindly. "This will hurt, my friend, brace yourself," he adds, clearly pained.

"I know, just do it," d'Artagnan replies dully.

"I must work quickly so you don't' freeze to death," the Spaniard explains succinctly, "we need to get you back into your clothes as soon as possible. Listen, I know you're married, you told the Captain that your wife is a fearless young woman, tell me about her, it will take your mind off the pain," Miguel encourages, dipping a cloth into a bowl of water.

The wet cloth gently wipes across the bleeding welts on his back and d'Artagnan can't help it, he cries out.

"Come on, now, friend, I saw you kill a man double your bulk while you were near death, surely you can withstand the sting of a bit of water on your wounds?" Miguel cajoles, his hands moving quickly and efficiently. "Now tell me about your girl, I'm guessing she was a child bride by the looks of you?"

"No, she was a widow, actually, when we finally married," d'Artagnan replies with great effort.

"Ahh, so an older woman then?" Miguel teases.

"Only by a year or two, she'd been a child bride to her loathsome first husband," he says whispers, his teeth clenching as he remembers Bonacieux and his nastiness.

"And how did you meet?"

D'Artagnan can't stop the moan that escapes when Miguel begins to rub something foul-smelling into the wounds. "I kissed her," he slurs, "I grabbed her in the market and kissed her to save my hide. Then she threatened to gut me for taking liberties, it was love at first sight," he says, the memory bringing a warmth to his soul that he hasn't felt in months. "She saved my life, multiple times, she's the most fearless woman I've ever met. But she was married, and I was madly in love with her for a very long time before we were able to be together as man and wife."

"Ah, so you became a couple as soon as her husband died?"

"No, I am ashamed to admit that we carried on without the blessing of marriage even before his was murdered by…bandits," he replies, not wanting to explain the whole sordid affair behind his nemesis' death. "We finally married the day I rode off to war," he adds, teeth chattering from the cold.

"True love, d'Artagnan, cannot be judged by man or even by God," Miguel tells him kindly. He's done with the salve and is now bandaging the wounds. "You'll need to sit up, my friend, so I may wrap the cloth around your chest and keep the bandages in place. I promise to be quick," he adds sympathetically. "Tell me, what does this feisty lady of your look like? Is she dark like you or pale like the English or maybe olive-skinned like the Spanish?"

D'Artagnan allows Miguel to help him sit, doing his best not to utter one sound as the Spaniard manoeuvres him upright. His pride and his dignity are already in tatters, and he expects that much worse is yet to come.

"Pale as alabaster, dark blue eyes like the sea at dusk, red-brown curls like the finest imported silk," d'Artagnan says sincerely.

"You have the heart of a poet, it seems," Miguel tells him fondly.

"No, that is what she truly looks like my friend, the most beautiful and the bravest and kindest woman in all France."

Miguel smiles indulgently and d'Artagnan gets his first good look at the Spaniard since the night of the duel. He's looks to be about Aramis' age and has similar features and colouring, aside from his eyes which are green. The Spaniard quickly and efficiently wraps the bandages around his torso and then helps him slide his shirt over his head.

"And you, Miguel? Are you married to some lovely Spanish beauty?" d'Artagnan asks, panting with the effort to get his breeches and stockings on. Seeing his struggle, Miguel pushes the Gascon's hands aside and put his stocking and boots on for him. D'Artagnan is shocked by the gesture but extremely grateful.

"Well my friend, you haven't answered my question?"

Miguel's expression goes blank and he begins to gather the medical supplies. He then puts a cloth that contains a piece of bread and an apple on d'Artagnan's doublet and removes a flask from inside of his coat.

"My wife and son died of a fever 10 years ago. I left my family estate and joined the military soon after, there was nothing left for me anymore," he says dully, his heartache blatantly obvious on his handsome face.

"I'm so very sorry to hear that, my friend," d'Artagnan says sincerely, not sure what else he could say to ease the Spaniard's pain. Constance has been in peril far too many times over the past few years and the fear had been crippling. He doesn't know how he would have survived had she been taken from him.

"When it happened, I prayed for death, but that's a mortal sin, as is suicide, so I decided that the army was a good place to meet my maker honourably, and be reunited with my beautiful Esme and little Carlos in heaven."

D'Artagnan recoils physically. "Please, my friend, don't tell me that you are helping me to facilitate your death all the quicker? That would simply be cruel!"

Miguel frowns. "Of course not, d'Artagnan, that would be a dishonourable way to die, I'd never do that to you or anyone else!"

D'Artagnan visibly relaxes. "I'm glad to hear that, you're a fine gentleman and caring soul, it would be a horrible loss to the world for you to be taken any sooner than the time that God has planned for you."

Miguel sighs and shows d'Artagnan the flask. "This is wine with a pain draught added," he says, changing the subject, and he pours it into the metal pitcher that had held water the previous day. "Drink it after you eat and it will help you sleep, the pain has yet to fully set in and during the night you will suffer greatly if you don't take it."

D'Artagnan nods. "I doubt that I can eat right now so I will hide what you've brought for later. Can you help me with my doublet?" his asks, his voice hoarse from dryness and pain.

Miguel shakes his head. "Don't put it on tonight, it will put undue pressure on your back. Drink the wine and lie down and I will cover you with your doublet and cloak before I go. Hurry though, friend, the others will get suspicious. You seem to lack a chamber pot and fresh water to drink and wash, I will do my best to rectify this tomorrow, I promise."

D'Artagnan drinks the wine from the pitcher and lies down on the straw carefully, and he turns slightly onto his side. Miguel covers him and shoves the food under his cloak so that no one will see it and take it away from him. The candle that the Spaniard has been using for light has almost burned down completely and the older man hastily gathers his things to go.

"Wait, Miguel, please," d'Artagnan says, remembering something urgent. He sticks his left hand out from under the cloak and offers it to the Spaniard.

"Can you take my wedding band to my friend Aramis? You said he won't come to harm, if I die here, I'd like him to take it to my wife," d'Artagnan says earnestly.

Miguel hesitates, his expression torn, but he nods and kneels down once again and slides the dull and scratched gold band from d'Artagnan's thin finger.

"I promise I will do my utmost to get it to him, if I cannot, I will return it to you, agreed?"

"Agreed," d'Artagnan says drowsily, the effects of the drugged wine, the exhaustion and the pain finally stealing the last of his strength from him. "Thank you Miguel, God bless you," d'Artagnan whispers.

"And you my friend," he hears Miguel say before the candle goes out and the door closes, leaving him alone again in his dark and frozen prison.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Porthos is quite furious that Athos has assigned him a babysitter.

It's not that he dislikes Henri, just the opposite, he has great affection for the young man, but he doesn't like being coddled and Athos didn't even try and hide the fact that Henri was going along to keep an eye on him. In all honesty though, Porthos is sure he'd go mad with only the four scouts for company, since they barely speak and keep wholly to themselves.

Neither he nor Henri are in uniform, they're dressed like the scouts in plain, homespun breeches and simple woollen doublets and cloaks. Only their boots couldn't be replaced on such short notice but both men had a second pair that are less ornamental than the ones they usually wear with their leathers, but the quality and the workmanship is still apparent so they'd splattered them with mud to keep anyone they'd meet on the road from recognising them as anything other than farmers and local craftsman on their way home from a meeting to discuss trade with other businessmen in a nearby town.

For the past week Porthos had mostly been plagued by fever and chills, an ague which has kept George and Claude quite busy in the infirmary, and with Aramis gone, the two young medics had needed help, in the form of Jacques, whose aunt was a healer and had imparted quite a bit of wisdom to her nephew. The three of them had managed to keep the illness contained as they'd followed Athos' strict rules regarding cleanliness and quarantine. Porthos had been declared fit two days prior and he'd immediately left the infirmary and housed himself with Athos because he couldn't bear to miss any updates regarding his missing brothers. That, and the fact that his tent felt eerily quiet without the boisterous d'Artagnan and the big man could not find rest in there alone.

Porthos refuses to believe that they are searching for bodies and not healthy and whole Musketeers. He himself had been taken prisoner while on patrol in January, along with two other green Musketeers and they'd been traded back to Athos for five men that the Musketeers had captured spying. Their treatment in Spanish captivity had been fair and Porthos expects the same will hold for Aramis and d'Artagnan. It's what he hopes for, at least. He fears for what would happen to d'Artagnan if he was starved or worse, since he'd only recently regained the ability to eat an entire meal. The vomiting induced by the poison had been so horrendous that it had become a reflex and Aramis had tried everything he knew to will it away. But it had taken months, of eating small meals, numerous times a day and drinking vile, herbal teas sweetened with honey to mask the taste for the lad's stomach to finally heal and allow him to regain some weight. Porthos has listened to him struggle, almost nightly at first, to keep even water down, and to preserve his younger brother's dignity he'd pretended to be asleep while d'Artagnan had sobbed quietly in his bedroll, frustrated and angry and disappointed.

Aramis on the other hand, although for the most part healthy, like the rest of them, is not a man who takes to confinement easily. When he'd dedicated himself to God and cloistered himself in the monastery he'd discovered that taking orders from the Abbot as well as staying confined to the grounds went against everything he'd lived and learned up to that point. When his brothers had come to spirit him away he'd agonized only due to the oath he'd made and not from any love of the solitary and obedient life of a monk. Athos had wisely told him that it could not be his true calling if he was even slightly tempted to follow the Musketeers to war and Aramis had made his apologies to the Abbot and to the brothers and to God before riding off with the regiment, making a vow to always keep his faith first and foremost in his heart, no matter where he might find himself. Porthos hopes that he will draw from that faith and be resilient and patient while they search for him and d'Artagnan.

Henri pulls his horse beside Porthos and quietly inquires of his superior officer's health.

"If you ask me again, boy, I swear on my mother's grave I will give you a spanking you'll never forget," Porthos growls and the cheeky boy has the gall to laugh.

"You spend too much time with d'Artagnan, he's corrupted you," Porthos says wearily.

Henri's mirth slips away and mouth twists into a frown. "We _will_ find them, won't we sir?"

"Of course, Aramis has been soldiering longer that you've been alive," he says, exaggerating to make his point. "He's been in worse scrapes, and d'Artagnan is like a cat, always lands on his feet no matter what."

"But we've found nothing, and these men are supposed to be the best at what they do. What if they're already in Arras? We'll never get them back if they've taken them there," Henri says mournfully.

"They're not in Arras, the General's spies have that place covered on all sides, and his men have orders to engage if they suspect the Spanish are moving them inside the walls. Dubois is terrified that our brothers will give up information to avoid torture, a lot he knows about Musketeers," Porthos says, affronted.

"That buffoon knows nothing about us whatsoever," Henri agrees angrily. "And he has no respect for our lives either, or he wouldn't have left us alone and exposed for so long, without reinforcements and munitions. If Captain…I mean Minister Treville hadn't forced him to move his camp closer to our regiment we might all be dead by now."

Porthos nods and pulls his hood down lower against the chill. "You are absolutely right, lad, but your words could get you court-martialed, so for your own safety, best keep your opinion to yourself, eh?"

"Yes sir," Henri replies contritely and they both pull back on their reins as one of the scouts, Nicolas, slows and comes to ride beside them.

"It's late, we'll camp near those trees up ahead until dawn," he informs them tonelessly and then once more leaves them to their own company. Porthos and Henri share a look, and the big man knows the lad is feeling just as uneasy as he is.

"I know that the General and the Captain trust them, but they make me…uncomfortable," the younger man says as they canter towards the spot Nicolas has indicated.

"Yeah, I hear you, lad, but they've done their job well up until now, they've not given us any reason to doubt their abilities or their loyalty."

When they reach their destination Henri takes both their horses to tend to them and Porthos walks over to where the scouts are busy making a fire and pitching their small tent.

"We've covered a lot of ground today and nothing, tomorrow we must ride towards the ruined abbey, I have a hunch about that place," Porthos says and almost at once Denis baulks.

"I doubt it, the mill is better suited for their purpose, I've been there, it's in good condition," the masked man says decisively.

Porthos nods and feels that uneasiness settle in his gut again. "Alright, but we've got to check both, the Captain's orders," he says firmly, his expression challenging.

Nicolas nods. "I agree, Musketeer, the abbey while quite derelict is actually easier to defend, the mill has no natural defenses, it's exposed, while the abbey is surrounded by rocky terrain and the walls are high and fortified."

The other two men grunt in agreement but Denis is quite insistent. "Yes, but it's barely habitable, it was crawling with rats and there were bats nesting in the rafters, I can't see the delicate Spanish using such a place as an outpost."

The other men chuckle and nod but Porthos is not convinced. "We'll check both, like Athos expects," he says tightly, and when they all agree, even the reluctant Denis, Porthos turns to where Henri is struggling to pitch their portable tent.

"This isn't much of a shelter," the younger man grouses, trying to get the middle pole to stand.

Porthos nods. "It doesn't really matter, lad, I have a feeling that we won't be getting any rest tonight," he tells the young Musketeer. "Listen, I know one of them will be keeping watch over our campsite, but just to be safe, why don't we take turns sleeping, yeah? I've just got this feeling…"

Henri looks over to the fire where the others are sharing a meal from their ration in silence. "I tend to agree, sir," he says quietly and together they manage to get the tent to stand. After a quick meal of dried meat and bread, the two Musketeers bed down for the night, with Henri agreeing to first watch.

"The slightest movement, the softest sound, you wake me, alright?" Porthos instructs firmly.

"Of course sir," Henri says, sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, a small knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other.

"How in the hell can you do that in the dark?" Porthos asks drowsily.

Henri laughs softly. "The same way Aramis can shoot a bottle blindfolded, it takes practice. I once saw a blind man in the market carving little angels, I was in awe and decided to try my hand. I'm not anywhere near as good as he was but I'm slowly teaching myself."

Porthos sighs and pulls his cloak over his freezing and exhausted body. "Good enough for me, I've seen your little animals and angels around the camp. In any case, you've got a knife in your hand, at the ready, which will help me to me sleep a little bit easier."

Henri grunts in reply. "Get some rest, sir, or else the Captain will have my hide. And you need to be in top form tomorrow...for when we find our brothers."

Portho feels his heart clench. "Yes, tomorrow we will find them, for certain."

* * *

For one fleeting, blissful moment when he opens his eyes, Aramis is convinced that everything that had happened to him was just a nightmare.

Until the agonizing pain in his shoulder and his trembling and fevered body tell him otherwise.

The physician, Raoul, is dozing in the chair beside his bed. The old man had been there all night, Aramis recalls, even when he'd demanded he be left alone to his pain and his misery. Oh, but the General - Navarro he's leaned is his name - won't have his prized hostage alone for even one minute until he's whole again.

A bizarre twist comes with his morning meal; a bath. Aramis is appalled that he's expected to bathe in front of a room full of strangers, and while his brother could be lying in a pool of blood in the cell beside him. The physician orders his bed be made up with fresh linens and requests warmed bricks be prepared to put into the sheets to keep their guest warm after his bath since his cell has no fireplace. It's like some macabre play being put on, with all the false kindness and comforts he hasn't had since Paris, the fact that d'Artagnan could be dead or dying making it all the more ghoulish. Defiant, aching and shivering, he refuses to get in to the tub.

"Señor, if you don't get into the bath the General will be very angry," the physician warns him cautiously. "He's away at the moment but these fine gentleman are here to make sure you do as you're told," the old man tells him, and he indicates the 5 soldiers inside the cell.

"How about this; I'll take a bath if you have a quick look at my friend. I assure you God would look very favourably upon you for this act of charity," Aramis saying, playing on his hosts' devout Catholicism for some relief for his brother. "Maybe you could have a look at his back, he was flogged last night, though from no fault of his own," Aramis says bitterly.

"I'm sorry, I cannot, but I can offer you something else instead. The general had one of his officers tend to him, I can bring him to you, and you can ask him anything you want, agreed?" the physician queries.

Aramis feels hope soar. _Please, God,_ he prays silently, _do not forsake our youngest brother, he's done nothing to deserve_ _what's happening to him_ , Aramis begs, slowly rising to sit on the edge of the bed. "Agreed, but these men need to stand outside the door, I was a monk, Señor, and I'm not used to bathing in public," he says somewhat haughtily for effect.

"But I can't help you in and out of the bath on my own," the physician protests.

Aramis also knows that he is incapable of getting into the bath without assistance, so he makes a suggestion. "How about you bring that officer to me now, he can help me and he can tell me about by friend."

The physician looks torn. It's clear that he knows he needs to get Aramis in and out of the bath quickly and without any undue harm coming to him or he'll be punished by the odious General like anyone else that defies or disappoints him, and Aramis is counting on his the old man's fear to work in his favour.

"Alejandro, bring Lieutenant Alvares here at once, before the water goes cold!" the physician commands and Alejandro, a short man with an ugly scar that cuts across most of his face grunts and goes to do the old man's bidding. The physician instructs the rest of the soldiers to wait in the corridor and they reluctantly agree. Aramis is starting to feel hopeful for the first time since they'd been brought here. Maybe he can use this lieutenant to pass coded messages to d'Artagnan, or at the very least receive information on his well-being, until they're rescued by their brothers.

The lieutenant arrives, and the heavy wooden door is closed so that _Señor Aramis does not take a chill_ and as Aramis is stripping off his clothes he realises, shocked, that he knows this man. The Spaniard gives him a look that clearly says 'keep quiet' and Aramis, now stripped to the skin allows the physician and the officer to help him into the tub. The water has gone from hot to warm but Aramis knows this is the best temperature for his fever, too hot and it will just rise again. He sighs tiredly and leans back and allows himself one minute to enjoy the feel of clean water on his filthy skin and then he turns to the Spaniard.

"My friend here says you tended to d'Artagnan, God bless you, Señor, is he badly hurt?" Aramis asks tentatively, not sure if this man is friend or foe or simply indifferent.

The physician hands Aramis a bar of soap and urges him to be quick. Aramis takes it and washes swiftly, carefully avoiding his bandaged shoulder. He can't do much with his hair since he cannot submerge himself due to his wound, but he does the best he can using his good hand and a bit of soap around his neck and behind his ears.

"The boy was flogged," the Spaniard answers flatly, as if he doesn't care one way or the other, but Aramis is wily and he can see that the other man is not as detached as he appears. "The General saw the benefit of having his wounds cleaned once it was pointed out to him that the boy will be more valuable to him alive," he informs Aramis, and he translates that to mean 'I suggested it' and 'I'm trying to keep him alive'. Why, Aramis isn't sure, but he _does_ know that this is the man who'd told Athos about the poison, Athos had been very specific in his description; he'd told Aramis that it was the lieutenant with the green eyes who'd been seated on horseback beside the loathsome Alogando.

The water has gone cold and Aramis is trembling. He accepts the Spaniards assistance when he rises from the tub and he quickly wraps the towel that the physician offers around his middle. With the help of both men he is dressed in clean drawers, stockings and shirt and the physician calls for the warmed bricks to be brought. The Spaniard uses this small distraction to hand Aramis something small and metallic.

"To take to his wife, in the event of his death," the lieutenant hisses in his ear, pretending to be fixing the bedding.

Without even looking, Aramis knows what he's holding and he feels sick with dread. "Will he die?" Aramis croaks, horrified.

"Not if I can help it," the man whispers and pulls back when the soldiers enter the cell carrying a canvas that holds the warmed bricks.

With no other choice, Aramis lets the physician fuss over his wound while his bed is warmed. It's as if he's part of some farcical pantomime, cared for like a revered guest, his every need tended to. He wonders how long this can go on before he goes insane from the sheer absurdity. He slides the ring onto his smallest finger and it barely fits, but it will have to do until he can hang it around his neck beside his crucifix. It's the safest place for it, beside the most sacred symbol of their Lord.

And the best way to keep his brother close to his heart.

* * *

D'Artagnan's day did not begin quite the way Aramis' had, with a hot breakfast and a warm bath.

He opens his eyes to an all new experience in pain. He's had many wounds… _too many_ …he acknowledges wearily, but this can't be compared to anything he's suffered before. It's impossible to make even the slightest movement without pulling at the lacerated skin of his back and after a tremendous struggle to relieve himself in the foul-smelling pile of leaves in the corner, he falls back onto the filthy straw and doesn't move for a very long time.

The door opens and he doesn't even have the strength to recoil; it could be Miguel but it could be the General, at this point he cares very little. There is not much he can do in any case, his fate is no longer in his own hands.

By some miracle it's not the General and his entourage, it's Miguel.

The older man is clucking and muttering at the state in which he finds d'Artagnan and without asking for permission he begins to strip away his fifthly cloak and doublet and pulls up his shirt to get to his wounds. He cuts the bandages away carefully and dArtagnan mumbles a grateful _thank you_ , relieved he won't need to rise to remove the now-stained linen.

"I've given your friend your wedding ring, he was most concerned for you," Miguel tells him as he washes away blood and probably pus, d'Artagan thinks, disgusted, from his shredded back.

"Is he well?" d'Artagnan asks with a gasp, the pain overwhelming, "has his wound healed?"

"He's fine, my friend, and on his way to recovery, don't worry about him at the moment, worry only about yourself," Miguel tells him somewhat sternly.

"I'll live, I've had worse," he replies with a tired sigh.

"Maybe, but not under these conditions," Miguel grouses. "I've brought you a chamber pot and a bucket with clean water, if you'll allow me to help you bathe I will happily do so, the cleaner you are, the better your wounds will heal."

The thought of being jostled around makes d'Artagnan want to refuse, but the idea of wiping away the grime from his battered body is tempting so he agrees.

Miguel helps him sit and the other man takes a pile of clean rags from the sack he's brought with him. He wets one and begins with d'Artagnan's face, neck and torso, and he tosses it aside and wets a clean one for his arms. He helps d'Artagnan to stand and with much difficulty he lets his breeches and undergarments fall around his ankles and quickly gives himself a standard soldier's bath while Miguel looks away to give him privacy and then tosses the cloth into the pile. Once he's dressed, Miguel has him lay face down once again to rub the foul smelling salve into his wounds and the pain is again at the centre of his world.

"Last night you forgot to tell me the name of the fierce and courageous warrior you married," Miguel teases, obviously trying to distract d'Artagnan from the agony of having the deep slashes on his back treated.

"Constance," he whispers, panting. "Her name is as beautiful as she is."

"My God, friend, if you keep this up you'll have me falling in love with her as well," Miguel says with a chuckle and d'Artagnan can't help it, he laughs weakly as well.

"I would advise against it, Miguel, she is not a woman to be toyed with," he warns fondly.

"I would imagine not, you've described her as a woman as fearsome of the goddesses of the ancients. Does she carry a bow?" he asks, putting the last strips of linen over d'Artagnan's back.

"No, a sword and a pistol, I taught her myself," he replies proudly.

Miguel once again helps him sit while he wraps clean bandages around his torso. "In all honesty I thought you'd been exaggerating but now I see you were not. Tell me, is she truly as you describe her?"

"In the very first days after the incident in the market, she shot a man to save my life," he remembers grimly. "It cost her dearly, mind you, up until that moment she's been a merchant's demure wife...and servant," he adds, crossly, "but that night, she became something else, someone whose blood soared at the thought of adventure and of course, justice; she'd killed a murderous bandit to save me, not some harmless rogue."

Miguel seems truly shocked and intrigued. "I've never met a woman like that to be honest, my Esme was a quiet and humble girl, but greatly educated and generous. Her father was a nobleman and a scholar, and they'd travelled all over the continent together. She knew history and could tell you about exotic places you could never imagine existed. She also spoke four languages, and was teaching all the servants on our estate to read and write, her charity was renowned in our province, everyone loved her," he says with infinite sadness.

D'Artagnan feels his eyes fill with tears as Miguel speaks of his wife; his pain is still vivid, even ten years on, a man would have to be heartless to not be affected by the Spaniard's grief.

"She was truly a wonderful and generous woman, my friend, I'm sure she's been blessed with the most revered place at God's right hand," d'Artagnan tells him softly.

"I hope so," the older man whispers. "Have you eaten anything?" he asks, quickly changing the subject.

"What you left me last night, I woke with a grumbling stomach sometime in the night, thank you, Miguel."

Miguel removes the flask that he'd brought the night before from inside of his jacket and once again pours it into the pitcher. He's also brought a second jug with him, this one, he explains, has clean water.

"Try and keep these out of sight, here in the corner, hidden behind you," he warns. He then moves a cracked chamber pot a few feet away from him. "If anyone asks you where it came from, pretend it was always here, in that far corner, tell them. I'm allowed to tend to your wounds but not much more," he says regretfully. "If the General find out I'm helping you there will be trouble."

D'Aratgnan freezes. "Miguel, if you're putting yourself in danger…"

Miguel shakes his head sadly. "Not trouble for me, my friend, for you. The General wouldn't dare hurt a hair on my head. The old bastard is my mother's brother," he says disgustedly.

"Lovely," d'Artagnan says murmurs, cringing at the thought of being related to such a cruel man.

With everything else seen to and his bandages in place, Miguel helps d'Artagnan with his shirt, and today, his doublet as well. "You should try to walk around a bit, but be careful with that shoulder, it's still too swollen to be jarred," he warns. "Fortunately your eye is looking better," he notes and d'Artagnan agrees, he can actually open it now.

"I've brought you some food, bread, cheese and another apple, you must eat it," he says sternly, handing over the bundle of food. "The General is away today, you might yet get a reprieve from his wrath until tomorrow."

D'Artagnan nods, grateful for small mercies. "Are you sure that Aramis is alright? Is he being mistreated? Please, friend, be honest."

Miguel's expression is unreadable and d'Artagnan can't quite make out what he may be trying to hide. "I swear on my honour that he is not being mistreated in any way," Miguel replies and d'Artagnan sees sincerity in his gaze and he pushes his misgivings aside.

"You know, in another life or even another time from now, you and I would have been great friends, I think," d'Artagnan says honestly.

Miguel smiles and once again he reminds him of his beloved brother Aramis. "This war can't last forever, can it? Maybe we'll get that chance. And I must meet your Constance one day, you have me so intrigued I swear I'd brave a hundred French soldiers for a glimpse of this paragon of beauty and bravery!"

D'Artagnan laughs until the rumble of his chest becomes painful from the aches and the bruises that litter his torso. "I'll make sure to tell her that…if I ever get to see her again," he adds, biting down on his bottom lip, the thought that he may never lay eyes on her again too horrible to even imagine.

"I swear to you, on my honour and on the graves of my family, that I will do everything possible to help you survive your captivity," Miguel tells him meaningfully. "Now I must go, before my uncle returns, if I can distract him this evening and keep him away from you, I will; maybe a bit of that sleeping powder I've put in your wine…" he says deviously and he gathers everything he'd brought with him into the sack. "Eat and get some exercise, then drink the spiked wine and rest."

D'Artagnan nods, grateful. "I don't know how to thank you…" he begins.

Miguel opens the door. "Thank me by doing your best to make it through this," he says firmly, and then the heavy door closes and he's gone.

D'Artagnan lets out a long breath. He always does his best, it's in his nature, instilled in him from a small boy by loving parents, but he simply doesn't know if it will be enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

Life on the northern front is nothing like Athos had expected.

Daybreak, muster, what passes for breakfast, feeding the horses, sword training, weapons checks, something that looks like stew for lunch, more sword training, grooming the horses, checking the tack, a lumpy, unidentifiable bowl of dinner, changing of the watch, sleep for those who can manage it and then the sun comes up all too quickly and it begins again.

This is a typical day on the frontlines, in the snow-covered, barren fields and forests of northern France, where a war is supposedly being fought. It's more like ballroom dancing, Athos thinks, moving around each other gracefully, coming into brief contact with another participant, a light touch, maybe a stumble, some flirtation to be sure, a few steps forward and the always one back.

Athos is surely not anxious to see his regiment on the battlefield, where he knows that half will be slaughtered, but this game of cat and mouse that is keeping them here, cold, sick, undernourished and under-equipped will exhaust his men at some point, like the dancers of the cotillion who are quite breathless by the time the music ends, droplets of sweat on their flustered faces, hearts beating quickly as they wait in anticipation to see what the orchestra will choose to play next.

It's been some time since his injury but his movements are still stiff and there's an ache in his chest that he can no longer be sure is purely physical; watching boys and men die from insignificant wounds that quickly become infected and from common battlefield illnesses like dysentery is wearing Athos down much quicker than he had expected. He'd been a Musketeer for nearly eight years before leaving Paris for the front and he's certainly not old enough to call himself battle-weary but this waiting and dancing around each other, raiding each other's camps, killing and kidnapping patrols it not moving them any closer to victory and certainly not towards peace.

"Permission to enter sir!" Athos hears from the other side of the flimsy walls of his canvas tent and he rises stiffly from his chair.

"Permission granted," he replies, his tone sharp and steady, because that is what he must be if he has any chance of keeping these men alive.

Lacroix enters his tent and salutes, standing at attention until Athos will inform him otherwise. This young man has become a fine soldier, worthy of his commission and his status as coordinator of patrols, his horsemanship second only to that of young Henri, who is the son of a horse breeder, so his superiority in the saddle is to be expected. Lacroix however, no matter how good a soldier he might be, has one small problem, one that makes Athos truly ache for him, since his unrequited affection will never be reciprocated. But it can also be a liability so the Captain has had to employ creative manipulation to keep Lacroix as far away from the object of his devotion as possible, in order to ensure that lives are not lost by any impulsive or heroic gestures.

"At ease, lad. What's the news from our patrols, more Spanish playing hide-and-seek outside our perimeter or have they proven too delicate to venture out from their tents on this brutally cold morning?" Athos inquires.

Lacroix struggles not to smile. "I'm happy to report that there haven't been any sightings for the past twenty four hours. We shall see what today will bring, sir!" he replies formally.

Athos nods and puts one hand on his desk, leaning some of his weight on the scarred wooden surface, a gift from their wayward youngest, his entire body suddenly feeling heavy and exhausted. "And any news from Porthos? I'm expecting at least one of the scouts to be sent to report any progress to us, have any of them returned to camp?"

Lacroix's smile fades instantly and Athos knows he's hit his weak spot; if the young man doesn't learn to hide his feelings better, Athos will have no choice but to speak to him and that is not a conversation that he is looking forward to. "No sir, none of the scouts have returned and there is still no news regarding the whereabouts of Aramis and d'Artagnan," he answers stiffly but his voice breaks ever so slightly as he says the name of the regiment's youngest member.

Lacroix shifts nervously from one foot to the other and clears his throat. "Permission to speak freely sir?"

Athos stiffens. "Of course, Musketeers are always encouraged to be honest and forthcoming; you may speak your mind without any fear of censure, Lacroix."

Lacroix nods. "Sir, it's about the scouts…" he begins tentatively.

"What about them? I know they're not exactly well-liked, but has something come to your attention, lad? If so, you must tell me, hundreds of lives could be at risk."

"Yes of course, I am aware of that, but I've been raised to be a gentleman and gossiping and fear-mongering is something I am loath to participate in. But with our brothers missing, and two more possibly in danger, I thought it prudent to speak my mind now that I have something in particular to share," the young man explains carefully.

"Oh for the love of God, lad, just spit it out!" Athos tells him angrily. "Do you think that the scouts are in any way disloyal to the French army?"

Lacroix nods slowly. "Yes sir that is what I think. And not just me, many other men in our regiment have questioned their loyalty," he says finally, continuing to fidget anxiously.

"Does anyone have proof of this?" Athos demands, fear flooding his veins.

"No," the younger man admits, "nothing solid or tangible. However, Pierre overheard them discussing the risks they're taking, their fear for the safety of their families…" he explains apprehensively. "But one of them actually said, apparently jokingly, that it would be more worth the danger if they were being paid double, from both sides," the young man tells him cautiously.

"Which man was this? Could Pierre discern who'd been speaking? And how did the others react to this comment!" Athos asks, questions flooding his brain. Could there be a traitor in their midst? The thought leaves him breathless.

Lacroix shakes his head. "He couldn't be sure who made that statement, but he did say that Nicolas reacted quite angrily, he was quite sure of that, which leaves the other three as our possible culprits."

Athos lets out a long frustrated breath. "I want eight men sent after Porthos and Henri immediately, one of them should be Pierre, so that he can report to Porthos directly without the need to share this information with anyone else at this time. Tell the men to equip themselves thoroughly as they will remain with Porthos under his command on his mission to find our missing brothers, understood?"

"Permission to assign myself to this patrol, sir."

Athos feels his heart clench at the look on the young man's face. "Permission denied, lad, I need you here, by my side, you are one of the few people I can truly count on," he says honestly, but that's not his only reason for keeping him behind.

Lacroix baulks. "But sir, I'm the fastest rider in the regiment, aside from Henri, I can be useful and …"

"One more reason I need you here, in case I need to send you to the General. Now go, speak to Pierre, tell him I expect his complete discretion on this matter and make sure to reiterate the need for complete secrecy. No one aside from Porthos should know of this. Do you know if he's already shared this information with anyone else?"

"No, only me, sir, since he knows I have your ear," Lacroix replies, his manner having turned sullen, but Athos disregards it.

"Excellent. You have your orders, soldier, I am confident that you will choose the best men for the task. You're a good lad, Lacroix, and I'm grateful for your dedication and your abilities, you have the qualities to make a fine officer one day soon, I expect you won't do anything to spoil your chances, understood?"

There's a fleeting moment where Athos sees Lacroix's eyes widen a fraction, and Athos almost regrets what he's said, but this is the military and it's his duty to keep his men alive, their feelings must come second. Lacroix swiftly recovers, as a nobleman's son he is very good at keeping his composure, a trait that Athos himself has had instilled in him by his own noble family, possibly the _only_ trait from his old life that Athos thinks is of any use to him.

"I understand fully, sir," Lacroix responds formally, and the double entendre of his reply does not go unnoticed by the wily captain.

"Good, I am happy to hear that. Now go, and hurry, I want the patrol outfitted and riding out within the hour. Have some of the others assist them with their gear and their horses, every minute that passes is a minute that Porthos and Henri could possibly be in danger," Athos tells him firmly.

"And Aramis and d'Artagnan," the young man adds softly and he salutes Athos and hurries out of the tent.

Yes, there's no mistaking the fact that the poor lad is smitten with d'Artagnan. It troubles Athos solely for the young man's well being and safety, his proclivities are none of his business, nor does it shock or offend him in any way, but he's confident that he's doing the right thing by keeping the two lads as far away from each other as possible.

Athos sighs and sinks back into his chair, Aramis and d'Artagnan's fate once more at the forefront of his thoughts. He's done his absolute best to keep his worry at bay, he holds the safety of dozens of men in his hands, any error in judgment or any special deference to his missing brothers in arms could cost lives and Athos considers himself a fair and honourable man, it simply would not be acceptable to be more concerned for the lives of the three men who have become so dear to him, than the lives of all the men in the regiment as a whole.

Head over heart, a motto he's done his best to instil in his men. Why then is he having such a hard time instilling it in himself?

* * *

There are moments when a man wonders how another, made up of the same flesh and blood components as every other human being in existence, can be so outrageously ruthless and cruel, so fundamentally different from the majority of the people that God has created, especially when they are taught that God created man in his own image.

These thoughts are running through d'Artagnan's head as he hangs from a wooden beam, wearing only his breeches and his boots, his wrists bound together and tied to a sturdy rope wrapped around the rotting wood. His feet barely touch the ground so most of his weight is hanging by his shredding wrists and his injured shoulder is once again out of its socket.

He wants to scream, and to his shame, weep, but he does neither, nor does he pray again, surely God has forsaken him, he thinks morbidly, but it pains him greatly to think so. Instead, he focuses on the bastard General, imagining all the ways that he can kill him, slowly, painfully and _creatively_ , and through these thoughts he accepts that he is no better than the loathsome, heartless man himself, but d'Artagnan no longer cares.

Hauled barely conscious from his filthy pallet of straw he'd been stripped from the waist up and half-dragged, half carried from his cell to a large open storeroom just a few feet away. Miguel's pain draught had been particularly potent and it had still held d'Artagnan firmly in its grip in the early morning when he'd been shocked to awareness by loud, angry voices and rough hands but he'd been too groggy to resist, his body uncooperative and his brain processing everything as if he were underwater, slow and murky.

D'Artagnan has no idea how long he's been hanging there, he's lost all perception of time and space, the pain sometimes stealing his senses completely, other times it's the catalyst that forces him back into awareness. At some point he thinks he might have wet himself, he doesn't know and he honestly doesn't care, his dignity barely concerns him, nothing does aside from getting his revenge on the maggot who'd strung him up like a slaughtered animal, without the slightest inkling of remorse or shred of humanity.

He hears a door open, heavy and creaking, like the one on his cell and some soldiers appear, holding someone between them, and to his shock he sees it's Aramis. Terrified for his brother's safety and horrified that he might end up dangling beside him d'Artagnan futilely tires to kick one of the soldiers, all manner of foul curses tumbling hoarsely from his dry and cracked lips, and he's rewarded by a first to his face.

The blow effectively halts his angry diatribe and then Aramis cries out his name.

It come out like a wail, a horrible, wounded sound and he watches dazed, as his brother sinks to his knees, two soldiers kneeling beside him, keeping him from falling forward. Aramis is in shirtsleeves and breeches, no boots on his stockinged feet and even in the dim light of this cellar, d'Artagnan sees glazed eyes, pale skin streaked with tears and two distinctive red blotches on his cheeks, and he knows at once that Aramis must fevered.

"This, my dearest Senor Aramis, is what happens when you are uncooperative," the General tells Aramis, who is still being held up by the two silent soldiers, his body trembling, probably from the cold and from the fever.

"Have mercy on him, Senor, I beg of you," Aramis slurs, his words slipping and sliding into each other, his expression horrified, and d'Artagnan now sees what had provoked Aramis' outburst; the whip in the hateful man's right hand.

"You are in control of his fate, my dear young man, so if you would like mercy shown, do something to stop this," he says coldly.

It finally dawns on d'Artagnan exactly what is happening, what Miguel had been hiding from him; Aramis is being asked to provide information to keep d'Artagnan from being mistreated.

The weight of that knowledge is like a blow to his stomach. Aramis is obviously physically unwell but he doesn't appear mistreated. But mentally, he has probably been tortured far worse than anything that d'Artagnan has suffered. Aramis is the kindest and most caring man he knows, d'Artagnan feels utterly devastated that such a good person is facing such an unspeakable choice; the choice between betraying his regiment and his country and betraying d'Artagnan. The General, he recalls, had made some offhand comment about 'Aramis failing him' the night he'd flogged him, but it had barely registered; now he understands what he'd meant.

"Aramis, look at me," d'Artagnan says, the words like a harsh croak. "Don't despair, brother, one for all, Aramis, _one for all_ ," he repeats firmly, hoping that Aramis understands that d'Artagnan knew exactly what that motto meant before he'd even had the pauldron on his shoulder. One for all...his life for all the others...it's what would be expected of any of them under the same circumstances.

Aramis meets his gaze, eyes red and over bright and he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out and abruptly, his eyes roll back and he collapses limply, grabbed at the very last moment by the two men beside him.

"He's a man of God!" d'Artagnan cries hoarsely. "You're surely securing your place in hell with your treatment of him!"

The General doesn't reply but he instructs his men to return Aramis to his bed and have the physician tend to him immediately. This is all said in Spanish, but d'Artagnan knows enough to understand what is being said and he feels nearly lightheaded with relief.

Once Aramis has been taken away, the General turns to d'Artagnan, whip in hand.

"You truly are an insolent wretch, but a resilient one, still defiant and brazen. Let us see what five more lashes to that already bloodied back of yours does to your impudence."

Nothing could have prepared d'Artagnan for the pain, not even his previous experience with the lash, for this time the sleek leather slashes across the healing lacerations on his back, crisscrossing the already-torn skin, he can't help it, he cries out, one, breathless agonised cry punched from his throat and then not a sound.

Dignity in tatters, he is cut down, dragged back to his cell and thrown onto the cold stone floor. His clothes are a few feet away but d'Artagnan is too weak to crawl the short distance, so he remains there, chest flat against the frozen ground, breath coming is short gasps, the pain in his back and his abused arms unequal to anything he's ever experienced before.

The door does not open that day or that night. There is no Miguel, no clean water and bandages and no draught for the pain. A some point d'Artagnan had dragged himself those few feet to where his clothes had been discarded beside the pile of straw and he somehow managed to lay on top of his shirt and doublet but he lacks the strength to pull his cloak over his shivering body.

Aramis' fate is torturing his muddled brain. He'd appeared fevered and if his brother's wound is infected and not treated properly he will surely die in this God-forsaken hellhole. And if the General continues to torture him mentally, dangling d'Artagnan as the metaphoric carrot, bloody and beaten, Aramis will surely go mad from horror and guilt. They need to get out of there, neither of them will survive their respective treatment for much longer and their only hope, aside from Athos and Porthos miraculously finding them in time, is possibly Miguel. But with his shoulder once more out of place, his back shredded and on fire, his wrists a bloody mess, d'Artagnan knows that there's nothing that Miguel could do for them at the moment anyway, not with d'Artagnan himself barely able to crawl, and Aramis possibly delirious with fever.

The hours pass slowly and torturously, with d'Artagnan fading in and out of consciousness, his arms numb, his shoulder throbbing and his back an inferno. He'd give anything to be in the same cell with Aramis, he thinks despondently, even if the older man could do nothing to treat his wounds, just his presence would have been enough to soothe his agony, if only just a little. Aramis, with his faith and his kind soul, makes a man feel like they can survive even the worst pain, even if they are beyond all worldly help.

To his shame, d'Artagnan feels one tear fall, then another, more from the heartache and the loneliness than the pain. If he is to die in this place, he would prefer not to be on his own, to be able to feel the comfort of Aramis' soothing touch and listen to his familiar voice whisper words of solace would make his passing all the more bearable. If his wounds become infected and the torture takes his battered body to the point of no return, he will implore Miguel to bring Aramis to him, the Spaniard has proved to be a good and honourable man, and d'Artagnan will beg him to bring Aramis for the last rites; not that he cares about that anymore, he no longer believes that he is in God's good graces, he simply would like to die in the comfort of his brother's strong arms.

* * *

Porthos du Vallon is the kind of man who doesn't pass up the chance to be a bit smug when the occasion calls for it. He's not often wrong, because he's learned the hard way not to be impulsive, but when he is, he admits it with grace…unless the Red Guard are involved, they have no honour, so why bother?

When he's right though, he can be the most arrogant and smug bastard – his words, no one else would dare impugn his heritage - you'd ever chance to meet. Whether it's his trademark grin and hearty laugh or his plain spoken 'I told you so' Porthos usually takes the opportunity to revel in his righteousness.

Today, however, is not one of those occasions. There's no smug retort or witty banter, just his smouldering anger that he'd been right when they'd found the old mill empty, with absolutely no sign that anyone had been in or around it in months.

Denis had managed to persuade the scouts that the old mill must be checked first; it was closest to their temporary camp and he'd made a big fuss over the weather turning on them and the other men, afraid to be caught in a freak blizzard had also insisted they try the mill first and use it as a shelter if they'd find it empty.  
Porthos' feelings of uneasiness have morphed into full-blown mistrust. The four men had been instructed by Athos to follow Porthos' lead and not the other way around and they'd blatantly disregarded Athos' directive. No snow came, not even one drop of rain and they are camped within the small courtyard of the mill, tired, cold and no closer to finding their missing brothers.

Henri has gone from wary to frightened, something that Porthos had not expected from the usually dependable and steady young man. Most of that fear though, Porthos, knows is for Aramis and d'Artagnan, who's fate could very well be resting solely in the hands of these masked men who they've put their trust in. Porthos is considering sending Henri back to camp with a message for Athos, expressing his concerns. One of them was supposed to report in either way within the next twenty four hours, Porthos will weigh his options and make a decision first thing in the morning. If things go sour, he knows he can handle himself, with or without the young man at his side, and he's leaning towards sending Henri to bring more men from their camp in order to widen the search.

At the moment, the young Musketeer is sleeping and Porthos, bundled up in his cloak, is sitting on his bedroll, his mind going over all the details of the past two days, trying to recall anything that might positively confirm his suspicions. It is entirely possible that Porthos is overreacting; these men know this area like they know their own faces, so maybe Denis truly did think the mill was the most likely place to hide, but on the other hand, Porthos' gut feelings and instincts are rarely wrong. If it's proven that one or more of the scouts are working against them, Porthos will deal with them personally and if any further treachery on their part will have caused a delay in finding Aramis and d'Artagnan, Porthos will show the guilty party or parties no mercy.

Unfortunately this isn't Porthos' only concern. From the very first minute Porthos' biggest fear was Aramis and d'Artagnan being recognised and that their role in the duel that had killed the Spanish captain this past November would worsen their treatment as prisoners of war. Aramis had been the catalyst, d'Aragnan's the hand that had ended the bastard's life, he hadn't said a word of this to Athos but their captain was no fool, Athos is the most intelligent and educated man amoung them, very little, if anything, gets past him, and Porthos is sure that this is just one more burden on the very heavy load that their brother carries.

There are moments, like this, that Porthos wonders why he remains a soldier. The closest he'd come to renouncing this life had been when he'd met the lovely and kind Alice, a woman he knows could have made him very happy. She'd seen past his mixed race and lack of status and had seen Porthos for who he is and what he's achieved, but although she'd been truly taken with him as a man and as a possible companion, the fact that he was a soldier had been the one thing she couldn't bear. The violence had shocked her, the fact that she might lose him in battle unthinkable and it had ended before it had really begun. In those moments, when he'd held her in his arms, dozing peacefully on his shoulder in her warm and comfortable bed, Porthos had imagined that he could get used to this; domestication, monogamy, quiet contentment. But not as a kept man, of course, so he'd never be able to give up his commission, earning his own way was imperative and sadly that was the one thing that Alice would not compromise on.

Later, when they'd ridden off to war, he'd realised that even if he had decided to give up his commission, he would never have been able to stay behind, not while Athos and d'Artagnan were being sent to the front, the idea of the two of them going to war without him would have been inconceivable. It was enough that they'd been temporarily abandoned by Aramis; Porthos could not have watched his brothers ride off alone to face the enemy, for so many reasons, more reasons than he could even list, but the biggest being that he was a soldier at heart and he would be till the day he died.

Heart heavy, Porthos waits patiently for the sun to rise, and he hopes that this new day will be the one when they find their missing brothers, alive and well.

In the next part; we find out all is not as it seems with Aramis, Miguel admits to making a grave error in judgement, the metaphoric 'cavalry' is on their way to assist Porthos and Henri and Athos is afraid for the entire regiment and the army in general if there truly are spies working against them.


	5. Chapter 5

Someone is shaking him gently.

"Señor you must wake up," a voice hisses in his ear. Spanish, somewhat familiar, but he can't place it.

"Señor if you don't get up now your friend will die!"

That gets Aramis' attention. "What…" he croaks and clears his throat, "What's happening?" he asks, blinking. His eyes feel swollen and his head won't clear.

"We have very little time to tend to your friend before the others return, now please Señor Aramis, get up!"

It's the Spaniard who'd given him d'Artagnan's wedding band, the same one from the night of the duel, and he allows the other man to pull him up to sit. The cell is dark aside from a lamp burning in the corner and the physician is sleeping on his cot near Aramis' bed. Alarmed, Aramis' gaze goes to the old man.

"He won't wake, I drugged him," the Spanish officer informs him smugly. "The others have gone to Arras, they rode out late into the night and will be returning early in the morning. I am Miguel, nephew to General Navarro, but I have little love for the man and his cruel ways. Now, we must to tend to your friend Señor, he's been flogged and he has other injuries as well, I need your help."

Aramis nods, anxious now for his brother, and he looks for his boots, his head cloudy. "Why do I feel like I've been drugged?" Aramis wonders, mostly to himself.

"Because you were. Yesterday, the General said he was going to give you one last chance to share information so I drugged your food, hoping he would leave you alone, and in turn, leave d'Artagnan alone," Miguel says fretfully. "Raoul tried to convince him you were truly ill, the man was beside himself; despite the fact that you're wound is healing you were mostly unconscious, warm and flushed and he had no idea what was happening."

"And?" Aramis demands.

Miguel looks distraught. "The General was furious, he thought you were faking so he took it out on d'Artagnan anyway," he confesses, his voice hoarse. "I couldn't help him after, the old bastard forbade me, and he watched me all evening like a hawk. When they left though I made Raoul a drugged tea, when I was sure he was in a deep sleep I woke you."

Aramis struggles with the urge to break the Spaniard's neck. "So d'Artagnan was flogged because your plan backfired? Holy mother of God, why would did you do such a thing?" Aramis asks, horrified. He remembers moments, glimpses of d'Artagnan suspended from a rope, the boy calling out to him, but he thought it had been a nightmare, just a horrible fever dream.

"Señor Aramis, if you'd been lucid you would have refused to cooperate, of that I'm sure," Miguel tells him flatly. "At least now, it's not on your conscience that d'Artagnan was flogged; you did not betray him, I did," he adds obviously sickened over what had happened. "Enough, now we need to help him, it's very bad, Señor!"

That's all Aramis needs to hear and he allows the Spaniard to lead him out of the cell in his stockinged feet and into the one beside his. Once inside Aramis needs a moment to compose himself when he sees where their youngest brother has spent the last few days; it's freezing, there is no bed or mattress, no food or water that he can see and no light, aside from the lamp that Miguel is holding. The worst thing of course, is the state of d'Artagnan himself, lying on the stone floor on top of his shirt and doublet, his cloak beside him, his shredded back nearly black from the dried blood.

"Hurry!" Miguel hisses and Aramis shakes off his shock and springs into action. Falling to his knees beside the boy he searches for a pulse with trembling hands and sends up a prayer of thanks to the saints for keeping him alive. Miguel darts outside and brings a bucket of water and bundle with supplies. Aramis doesn't want to wake him, it will be so much worse, he acknowledges, so he and Miguel work quietly and as gently as possible, but d'Artagnan's wounds are horrific. The older slashes are seeping yellowish liquid, the newer ones still leaking blood.

"What kind of whip has done this? These wounds are very deep and they aren't from the cat…" Aramis asks, sickened.

"A horse whip, it breaks the skin because the end of it is almost as sharp as a blade, made especially for my uncle."

"I thought it was a dream, a nightmare actually, I don't even remember anything that happened yesterday," Aramis admits in a hushed tone as he tries to get as much blood as he can cleaned away. "I remember being feverish the day before, having a bath," he adds with an embarrassed grimace, "and then the rest of the day I think I slept. Later on Raoul told me my wound was no longer infected and in truth I was feeling much better."

"Yes, he also reported this to the General, who then decided that in the morning you would be interrogated. I didn't know what else to do! I was certain you would not betray your country and my uncle is a very vindictive man, I did what I thought was best. If you were incapacitated I was sure he'd leave the boy alone," Miguel explains miserably.

Aramis is still very angry, but he believes him. "You've kept him alive so far, and for that I'm truly grateful. He's not just my comrade in arms, he's family," Aramis tells him softly.

"His wrists are torn and bloodied as well, and I think his shoulder is out of place again."

"Again? Dear God, I'm going to kill him! I know he's your uncle but this is outrageous," Aramis hisses, irate, unable to believe how d'Artagnan has been treated. "You said you weren't supposed to take care of him, what will happen when the general sees that you have? Will he take it out on the lad?" Aramis asks, the frightening thought suddenly occurring to him.

"No, I can handle the old bastard, I've been doing so for most of my life" Miguel answers with a grimace. "He's always been a bully, I spent most of my childhood contriving ways to keep my aunt safe from his wrath without him realising what I was doing."

Aramis can't help it, his mouth twists into a half smile. "Sounds like you were a crafty lad, and still are, how do you manage to fool him?"

"Flattery, misdirection, and I always let him think that my ideas are his, I will do the same today, don't worry."

When his back has been cleaned, rubbed with a healing salve and bandaged they begin on his wrists and d'Artagnan hasn't twitched, hasn't moved a muscle or made a sound. Aramis feels helpless and useless and guilty, but he tries not to dwell on any of that. They need to finish tending to him and get him dressed, and possibly fed, if Miguel can manage to get them any food.

"I have some wine in a flask and some bread," the Spaniard tells Aramis when he inquires. "Maybe if we mix it together we can feed it to him. I'll return immediately," he says and leaves Aramis alone with d'Artagnan.

Aramis carefully cleans one side of his dirt streaked face and feels his heart break. Sickly, blue-green discoloration surrounds one eye and his jaw is red and inflamed with fresh bruises blooming from ear to chin. "I'm so sorry, lad," Aramis whispers mournfully, one tear escaping, then another, "I'm so very sorry."

Miguel returns with a cup and a spoon and he pours the wine into the cup and then adds some bread, mixing it up. He puts it aside and they gently lift d'Artagnan until he is sitting, and wrap clean bandages around his torso and then put his shirt over his head. .

"His shoulder…"Aramis breathes, sickened. "We can't fix it…not today…it's too swollen." They carefully put his right arm into his sleeve and leave the other one empty for now. Aramis quickly wipes the rest of his face and neck with a clean wet rag and then tosses it aside "Let's see if we can get him to take a few bites."

Miguel nods and moves to kneel behind him, holding him up as carefully as he can, his hands avoiding his ruined back and mindful of his injured shoulder.

"D'Artagnan, open your eyes, brother," Aramis urges kindly but firmly. When he receives no response he begins patting his cheeks. "Come on now, lad, just for a moment, and then you can rest again." Still nothing. Aramis sighs and he regretfully employs an old trick that he's found effective when trying to wake Athos from a drunken stupor; he pinches his ear lobe, once, twice, but nothing, the third time he flinches, the fourth, his eyes open.  
Slowly, d'Artagnan's lids flutter, and immediately he gasps and twists, and Aramis knows he's been assaulted by pure agony.

"Settle, lad, you'll hurt yourself," Aramis scolds. "Deep breaths, in and out, come on, I've got you."

"Aramis? Is that really you?" he asks, in a shaky voice so filled with wonder and relief Aramis feels tears well up again.

"It's me, brother. Listen, we don't have much time. I need you to eat something, can you try…please?" Aramis implores softly.

D'Artagnan nods once and doesn't even bother to protest, not a very good sign Aramis thinks. "Good boy," he tells him and he spoons the wine and bread mixture into his mouth. D'Artagnan's eyes slide shut but he swallows and allows Aramis to give him the whole cup.

The symbolism of what he is feeding his injured brother is not lost on Aramis, and for a moment his breath catches, wishing for a fleeting moment that he had been ordained, to bless the bread and wine combination, in case he truly is feeding his brother a bastardised version of the communion of the last rites.

"He will rest easier now," Miguel assures him as they ease d'Artagnan to lay back down on his stomach and within moments he's out cold.

"You drugged the wine? By God, man, what is it with you and potions?" Aramis questions, genuinely frustrated.

"My wife, she tended to everyone in our household personally, from family to servant, everyone received the finest care from my Esme, she taught me how to make various tonics, for everything from diarrhoea to a headache. I'm trying to help you and the boy, believe me, I certainly never intended for this to happen," he says dejectedly.

"Miguel I believe you, honestly, I just wish I'd known what you were planning, I assure you I would have gone along with it. What is this place? And why are you here instead of in your camp or in Arras," Aramis questions. He doesn't actually expect a truthful response but he tries, regardless.

Miguel lets out a long sigh. "We're here because you were betrayed. The General knew where to find you and he was told you were carrying important orders. We set up an outpost here specifically to detain and interrogate you. Arras is under constant surveillance by your army, any attempt to get you into the city could have brought on a bloody skirmish for sure."

Aramis feels like all the breath had been punched from his lungs. "The General said, but I didn't believe him, do you know who betrayed us?"

Miguel shakes his head. "I don't know, Señor, truly I don't. Only the General and Alejandro know, they meet their spy alone," he says disgusted. "I joined the military after the death of my family, I was feeling lost and hopeless and my uncle lured me in with stories of great victories fought with honour and dignity, for the protection of my country and my people. And then I found myself part of an institution seeped in corruption, where rank is bought and sold and battles are fought not with skill or honour but based on betrayal and treachery. But I've remained and I've made it my duty to help men on both sides that have been wronged by this senseless war, men mistreated by their own peers and prisoners like yourselves who are not held according to the treaties set down. This boy," he says indicating d'Artagnan "has been wronged twice, once by my former captain and his poisoned sword and now by my uncle who treats him like a dog…no, that's not true, he treated his dogs back home somewhat better."

Aramis listens to all of this astonished, and in awe of this man who is truly a better human being than Aramis himself has ever been. "I don't suppose you could help us get out of here?" Aramis inquires hopefully even though he knows what the answer will be.

"If it was in my power I would have done it before the boy had been so badly mistreated. I'm sorry Señor, truly, but I cannot help you escape."

"I understand," he replies, stroking the lad's hair and his face, loathe to break contact with his beloved friend.

"This is my fault, he wasn't supposed to come along, he'd been…ill," Aramis explains, stumbling over that understatement, not wanting to go into all the details of his suffering with Miguel. "But I encouraged our Captain to let him accompany me now look what's happened," Aramis says ruefully. "We shouldn't have been separated but the foolish boy is even more cunning than you are and he apparently convinced the General that I was someone…special."

"Yes, he's quite the storyteller," Miguel states with a low chuckle. "He tells tales of his wife that surely cannot be true, can they?"

Aramis smiles, his hand still tangled in the boy's hair. "Trust me, whatever he's told you is true and then some. Did he tell you that Constance and I were falsely accused of treason and sentenced to death?" Miguel shakes his head, clearly stunned.

"Constance went to the block with more courage than I probably would have managed to muster. Fortunately, this mad boy and our friends saved her in the nick of time. We were exonerated of course, but I'm sure that the pair of them will have nightmares about that day for a lifetime, I know I will."

"I've never met any woman like that, she sounds like an Amazon, is she tall and muscular as well?" he asks in awe.

Aramis laughs softly. "No, she's actually quite lady-like, beautiful and well-proportioned, and my brother here fell in love with her the minute he saw her. Their story is not a perfect one though, there was plenty of heartache and much wine was consumed and tears shed before they finally became man and wife."

"I know, he told me. And you my friend? Have you left some lovely woman pining for you back in Paris? They say you're a monk, but somehow I doubt that," Miguel says with a knowing smile.

Aramis lets out a long breath. He's lain with too many women to count, but truly loved only three. Two have been taken from him forever and he knows the third can never be his. "No, it seems I'm destined to be alone, married only to my faith," he replies honestly. After all that's happened, Aramis is sure he'll never be in love again, never find happiness within the arms of another woman. But he's content to spend the rest of his days beside his brothers, protecting his country, and in turn, keeping his child safe.

Miguel nods knowingly and Aramis see a kindred spirit in him, the other man in no stranger to heartache himself.

"You call him brother and he fought as if possessed by the devil when they took you," Miguel muses, changing the subject, "and back at your camp that night, it seemed as if every man would have stepped forward to protect your regiment, I have to admit there's not much of that among our men. How do your superiors manage to foster such loyalty?"

Aramis smiles ruefully, taking d'Artagnan's cold hand and warming it between both of his; it's pointless he knows, it will be freezing again as soon as he lets go, but mostly it's an excuse to hold his hand, to feel the pulse at his wrist and assure himself that he's still alive.

"It's not like that everywhere, it's mostly our Captain…and our Captain before him, both demanding loyalty and fidelity above all else and strict adherence to our motto…" he answers truthfully, keeping the oath to himself, "and the boy, he's our youngest," Aramis continues, swallowing the lump in his throat, "and somewhat…reckless, but very brave, he always manages to get himself into some kind of trouble…" he finishes, trailing off, not able to say anymore without losing his composure.

Miguel's gaze falls on d'Artagnan's still form and he nods sympathetically. "Listen, it's nearly daybreak, the others will be returning soon. You say his shoulder has to remain as it is?"

"Unfortunately yes…in a day or two, we'll see…" Aramis adds, but then he's hit with the morbid thought that d'Artagnan may not be alive by then and he sways.

"Here, Señor, let me help you stand," Miguel says, righting him before he falls over. Aramis feels dizzy and weak, a reminder that he has not yet fully recovered from his own injury. He allows Miguel to help him stand and with one last, longing look at his sleeping brother Miguel leads him back to his own cell and he finds himself leaning much heavier than he'd like on the Spaniard. Miguel helps him sit on the end of the bed and he frowns. "Those stockings will tell a tale of midnight strolls," Miguel tuts and bends over to roll them off Aramis' feet. "Better to have cold feet than to give yourself away. I'll bring you another pair and leave them on your bed, so no one suspects anything aside from you feeling overly warm."

Aramis doesn't care about dirty hose or cold feet or even his aching shoulder wound at that moment. Once he's lying back in his bed, his hand snakes under his shirt to his crucifix, to where d'Artagnan's wedding band now hangs as well. Miguel leaves quietly and Aramis barely notices the other man exit, his mind now focused on his prayers. He prays for d'Artagnan and for the safety of all of his brothers in arms, and for Porthos and Athos in particular, and he asks the saints to guide them to this place, wherever it is, so that they might save d'Artagnan before he slips away from them. Lastly, he prays for himself, and he asks God to give him the strength and fortitude to keep the boy alive while they wait for Athos and Porthos to come to their rescue.

* * *

At dawn, Porthos watches Henri open his eyes blearily…and begin to cough.

The ague has hit his young comrade and Porthos is at once twisted in knots. If he puts him on a horse and sends him back to camp he may not make it all the way. If he sends one of the scouts there is the possibility that his coded correspondence may never make it to Athos' hands. And if he goes himself and leaves Henri alone the boy could be in grave danger, not only from the illness but possibly from the scouts as well.

In the end Porthos makes a decision based on process of elimination. He is sure he doesn't trust Denis and mostly sure he can trust Nicolas so he decides that those two must be kept close. Michel seems like an alright sort, hardly speaks, keeps his opinion to himself but Alphonse has been somewhat warmer to him and the lad, and although he is truly suspicious of all of them, Porthos gives his coded and sealed missive to Alphonse and urges him to get back to camp as soon as possible to report what they've found, or not found, Porthos thinks angrily, but to also bring some of Jacques' herbal mixtures for the ailing lad.

What none of them know of course is that along with the teas and blankets Porthos has requested reinforcements and ammunition.

Porthos tends to Henri as best as he can, helping him outside to relieve himself and making sure he eats something, before bundling him up under the blankets and securing the tent flap to keep the cold air away from the young Musketeer. Porthos approaches the rest of the scouts warily to discuss their next move; losing an entire day waiting for reinforcements is out of the question, but how can he leave Henri alone and unprotected?

"Nicolas, can you and Michel stay here and look after the boy while Denis and I have another look around? We can't waste another day waiting for the boy to feel better, our men could be dead by then."

"Of course," the other man says kindly and there is something in his eyes that gives Porthos reason to believe that he will not hurt the lad. "My daughter had this illness recently, my wife said it passed quickly with rest and some old family remedies, as soon as Alphonse returns with the herbal teas I'm sure he'll be fine."

Porthos thanks him and after a quick breakfast he and a mostly sullen Denis ride off in the direction of the ruined abbey.

"Can I ask you something?" Porthos queries, when they stop at a stream to water the horses.

Denis looks at him oddly. "Of course," he replies, clearly surprised.

"Why do you do this? The scouting I mean," Porthos questions innocently.

Denis nods slowly. "If you're asking if it's for France, the answer is no. I'm doing it for the money. I have a very large family to support, my parents, my wife and children, two orphaned nephews and the hired help on our farm. I'm a patriot, Monsieur Porthos, but I won't lie and say I'm doing this for the King or for France."

It's a somewhat shocking revelation but Porthos respects his honesty. "And your friends? They also have families and responsibilities?"

"Aside from Alphonse the rest of us are farmers with families and debts and many mouths to feed."

Porthos nods slowly, a feeling of unease settling in his belly. "And Alphonse? Trying to save money to marry his sweetheart or maybe open a tavern in his village?"

Denis frowns. "None of us has worked with Alphonse before. He is from this region and an excellent tracker and horseman but he keeps his personal life to himself, I'd be lying if I said I knew anything more."

"Do you think he's trustworthy?" Porthos questions, finally getting to the point.

"Are you trying to ask if any of us would betray you and your regiment, Monsieur?" Denis asks, clearly affronted. "I just told you I'm doing this for the money, we all are, but that doesn't mean that we are traitors!"

"I have every right to ask," Porthos replies firmly. "The two Musketeers who are missing? They are my only family, Monsieur, I lost my mother at five and the horrible wretch that spawned me had dumped me long before that. There is no one left alive that I call family aside from these men, the wife of the younger of the two and our Captain. Now, I would be out here searching for any one of the men in our regiment, they are all my brothers, but these two are very close to my heart so I will ask you again, in plain language, would you or anyone in your party betray us for gold?"

Denis shakes his head. "I can personally vouch for myself, Michel and Nicolas, who I have known many years. None us of would betray our own country...or our employers," he adds pointedly, "for extra gold, despite what you may think."

"I believe you," Porthos says truthfully. "But what about Alphonse?"

"I don't know him well enough to vouch for him," Denis answers as they mount their horses. "But that doesn't mean I think he's disloyal."

They ride in silence, in the direction of the ruined abbey, everything they've discussed running through Porthos' head, and he tries to sort through all the information. These men have families, would they risk their wives and children for a few extra coins? Porthos doubts it, which leaves Alphonse as the only suspect, if there even is a traitor amongst them.

"Monsieur Porthos, we must go the rest of the way of foot for stealth, the horses will be heard if there is anyone there," Denis warns and they carefully tie their horses, check their weapons and move forward. Luckily for them, there are trees and some underbrush, and despite the snow making the trek difficult they are able to get close enough for Porthos to use his spyglass.

"There are Spanish soldiers guarding the perimeter," he informs Denis who takes the spy glass to see for himself.

"A raid requires more men than we have," he tells Porthos grimly. "And the element of surprise is of the utmost importance."

"I've requested reinforcements," Porthos tells him as they retreat. "As soon as I realised that Henri was unwell I added that to my report to the Captain," he lies smoothly and Denis thankfully doesn't take that as an affront.

"Good, we'll need at least a dozen men, how many did you request?"

"Eight or ten, plus the five of us, we'll be fine," Porthos says with conviction, feeling hopeful for the first time in days. They can't be sure that his brothers are actually in the abbey but those inside may be able to tell them where there are being held, with a little persuasion of course. They get back to the horses and ride quickly back to camp where they find Nicolas tending to the ailing Henri. The boy now has a fever and Porthos, after seeing his comrades suffer for the past ten days or so, is afraid for his life.

"I hope your man gets back here quickly," Porthos says, taking Nicolas' place beside the young Musketeer. Henri's eyes are closed, his face lax and his breathing is laboured and Porthos is properly terrified.

"There's nothing we can do until reinforcements arrive," Michel states quietly, poking his head in through the tent flap. "I'll prepare something for everyone to eat, for you and the boy as well," he adds and Porthos gives him a grateful smile. His gut tells him that these three can be trusted, but what of Alphonse? What if he doesn't deliver the missive to Athos and just rides off and disappears?

For the moment, his only concern is getting a bit of food and water into his sick brother and he's grateful that Michel has offered to cook for them as well. As a Musketeer Porthos is used to being able to rely on the man beside him in battle and the man who shares his tent and breaks bread with him, so this has been a trying mission. But aside from Henri's sudden and unexpected illness things are looking up. It seems as if they may have found their missing brothers and Porthos is now feels confident that he can trust these three men.

Maybe, just maybe, this one time, luck will remain in their side?

* * *

Early evening brings news to the Musketeer's camp by way of the scout named Alphonse.

He tells Athos of Henri's sudden illness and requests supplies to treat him, as well as food and blankets. He gives Athos a quick report on the previous day's findings, in other words nothing, but he tells Athos that they are hopeful that the abbey will hold some clues if not the missing men themselves.

"Is there no correspondence for me from Porthos?" the Captain inquires, surprised.

"No sir, as I said he rushed me off with instructions to bring back supplies for the sick Musketeer as soon as possible and there was no time to write a missive," Alphonse explains apologetically and Athos knows at once that he's lying. It's protocol, Porthos would have sent him a coded message even if there was nothing to report, Athos knows this for a fact but apparently Alphonse doesn't. At some point his lie will be exposed, does he plan to be gone by then?

"Have you by any chance passed any of our men on the road? I'd sent a patrol late yesterday afternoon with dispatches to our outpost again," Athos lies smoothly. "Considering that they'd camped for the night I would have thought you'd have crossed paths today at some point?"

"No sir, I've seen no one."

"Very well, I'll have everything you need prepared at once. In the meanwhile rest and get something to eat, when you're ready to leave come back here so I can give you my correspondence to Porthos, agreed?" Athos tells him pleasantly.

"Yes sir," Alphonse replies and he leaves Athos' tent.

Athos straps on his sword, grabs his cloak and follows, taking the lit torch from its holder outside of his tent intent on rounding up some of his most dependable men, Lacroix, Hubert, Laurent for the moment, since he's already sent eight of his most trusted comrades after Porthos and Henri and of course Aramis and d'Artagnan are not at his side. Alphonse is clearly lying, but to what purpose? Is he the man that Pierre overheard? Is he the traitor Lacroix fears moves among them? Porthos would have sent correspondence for certain and the men he'd sent after Porthos and Henri yesterday were carrying a detailed map of the search areas, they should have met up with Porthos before Alphonse left camp or at the very least passed each other on the road.

He puts the torch in an empty holder outside the mess tent when he hears a faint rustling behind him. Instinct, days of uncertainty and seeds of mistrust have heightened Athos' senses and it takes him a fraction of a second to swing around, sword now in hand.

He's not surprised to see a shocked Alphonse standing in front of him, pistol drawn and with a flick of his sword the pistol goes flying from the traitors hand, along with a few of his fingers.

The horrible howl that escapes the man's throat brings the entire camp to Athos, Lacroix reaching him first and pushing Athos behind him immediately, both his pistols primed and ready.

"Stand down, lad, I've got this," Athos says firmly and Lacroix reluctantly takes a few steps back to stand beside Athos instead of in front of him, pistols still pointed at the wounded scout.

"I will allow George to treat your wounds if you tell me what the bloody hell is going on. If not, I will tie you to a post and let you bleed to death, which you surely will...very soon."

"Fix me up just to hang? No, I'd rather die!" Alphonse sneers.

Athos doesn't want to do this but he has no choice. "Alright, no death sentence, my word is law, and there are dozens of witnesses. You don't have much time, my friend."

"Fine, fine, now please, help me!" he wails and George moves through the crowd quickly with a bundle of bandages and he does his best to staunch the flowing blood from Alphonse's mangled hand.

"This needs to be cauterised at once, Captain!" George warns.

"What have you done to Porthos and Henri?" Athos demands.

"Nothing! I swear they're fine, at the old mill, the boy was ill but not injured!" Alphonse sobs.

"And Aramis and d'Artagnan?"

"The abbey, the one Nicolas showed you on the map," he replies, swaying.

"Where have you been all day today? I'm guessing Porthos sent you out very early this morning!"

"I was meeting with my contact, the one who wants you dead."

"And who is this person who ordered my death?"

"General Navarro, he has Aramis and d'Artagnan," the disgraced scout says miserably, tears and mucus running down his face and chin, "he sent me to kill you, something about that stupid duel," he adds wretchedly.

Athos feels his blood freeze in his veins. "Why did he take Aramis and d'Artagnan specifically, for the same reason?"

"No, I told him they were carrying orders, he found out later who they were, from some of his men and then decided punishing d'Artagnan wasn't enough, he wanted you dead as well," Alphonse answers feebly, obviously close to losing consciousness.

Athos seethes. "Dear God, has he already killed Aramis and d'Artagnan? Answer me truthfully or I'll draw and quarter you while you're still alive!"

"No, no, Aramis is fine, he knows he was a monk and he won't hurt him, some nonsense about the wrath of God , but d'Artagnan has been…mistreated, you'd better hurry," he says, collapsing forward onto George.

It takes Lacroix, Hubert and a few others a quarter of an hour to keep the rest of the men from entering the infirmary and ripping the traitor to pieces, but Athos has already left the melee and headed for his tent where he's packing his saddlebags and prepping his weapons. A dishevelled Lacroix finds him as he is leaving his tent.

"Permission to accompany you sir!"

Athos sighs heavily. His decision to ride out after Pierre and the others is impulsive and he knows that abandoning the regiment could a dangerous move but if the treachery goes any deeper than just Alphonse the regiment is in grave danger regardless.

"Tell Hubert he is in charge of the regiment, with Laurent as his first Lieutenant until we return. Alphonse is not to be harmed, we still need to question him! He's to be shackled in the infirmary with two guards at all times. Any sign of the Spanish or any other threat they are to send riders to General Dubois, understood?"

"Yes sir, I'll be ready to ride as soon as I give out the orders, shall I saddle the horses?"

"No I will, grab your kit and those medical supplies for Henri and meet me in ten!" Athos commands, still unsure if he's doing the right thing. But he's already sent ten men including Porthos and Henri into certain danger and without knowing what in blazes is actually going on, he can't in good conscience send out even more men, possibly to their death. Besides, Athos would like to confront this General who has ordered his death face to face and if he's truly mistreated his brothers who are prisoners of war and protected by a treaty, he would like to be the one to personally send the bastard to hell.

Lacroix meets him at the horses and with the aid of the full moon, Athos and the young Musketeer ride out of camp to find their wayward brothers…all of them…and he hopes to God they are not too late.


End file.
